My Experiment
by namedthingsyouthrowback
Summary: Sherlock steals a boy. Sorry- rescues. John helps, because what choice does he have? But not even Sherlock knows just how not-boring things will be...
1. Chapter 1

'_My_ experiment, John. Get your own.'

'He's not an _experiment_, Sherlock, he's a _child_!'

'Same thing.'

'Look, Sherlock, the fact that you put him in the same category as the fingernails in the fridge or the mould patterns in the sink- and I still say, by the way, that you're just trying to get out of cleaning- just goes to show how unfit a guardian you really are. And having a doctor at your beck and call does _not_ make up for anything horrible you might do to the poor boy! You _need_ to give him up!'

Sherlock spun round to look at him intently. 'Correct me if I'm wrong, John, but is it not irresponsible to remove a traumatised child from a nurturing environment in which the child feels safe?'

John laughed, somewhat hysterically. '_Nurturing_? _Safe_? Sherlock, this place is about as far from nurturing as it is possible to get, and the poor boy's probably-'

John didn't know exactly how he'd meant to finish that sentence. 'Terrified out of his bloody wits,' probably, or something to that effect. But all at once he'd noticed Sherlock's raised eyebrows and hunched shoulders and, for the first time, broke eye contact to let his gaze drift down to the boy in question. The boy, apparently, who had indeed decided that Sherlock's arms were a safe place to be, and drifted off to sleep with one hand clutching the man's purple scarf and the other hidden away with the rest of his tiny body inside the folds of that ridiculous coat.

John sighed, and rested a hand over his eyes. Okay.

Breathe. Think.

Think like Sherlock, even.

John closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to watch those long, pale fingers absently fiddling with a tuft of scraggly black hair.

The boy, for whatever inexplicable reason, had decided to trust Sherlock. A bond of trust was no insignificant thing to an abused child. Therefore, in order to bring the him out of his shell in order to initiate treatment, Sherlock should really stay in the picture, at least for a little while.

Point one to Holmes.

So, on to the environment. Well, Sherlock might be somewhat qualified as a general tutor- on most areas of study, anyway. And John was indeed fully qualified to provide the physical medical care for a child, even a skittish, malnutritioned one. The mental treatment was something else, though. John himself was hardly over his own mental battles, and he didn't know any more about child psychology than had been mentioned in passing in classes. Such things weren't really a problem in a war camp.

Besides, John just wasn't cut out for that sort of thing. He might be able to shove his emotions back when it came to handling the entrails of a screaming soldier on the sands of Afghanistan, but he didn't think he could do the same when it came to listening to the boy- scrawny, adorable little thing that he was- talk in his polite little voice about why each of his ribs could be counted while his cousin looked like a juvenile walrus. Psychiatrists, especially a psychiatrist trying to help an abused child, had to be calm, steady people who could keep their personal emotions at bay, and read between the lines, and pick up on what the boy would refuse to say based on all the little clues he let slip...

Someone just like Sherlock, really.

No, no, no. That was a properly bad line of thought to follow. Sherlock didn't show emotion because he didn't _have_ emotion. He wouldn't be able to empathise. He'd probably read all the books and websites out there, give all the proper responses the textbooks suggest...

No. **_No_****. **They needed a professional. Sherlock couldn't technically be called a professional anything.

But he was fairly sure they wouldn't be able to take the boy to a proper child psychiatrist without some kind of legal identification. Hell, they didn't even know his _name_, let alone his birth date or insurance information! And if they tried to pass him off as Sherlock's child (never John's; at least those two had similarly fluffy black hair and narrow features, though the boy's face should fill out to proper childish roundness with a few weeks of good, regular meals), and someone found out, the boy would be taken away and probably sent back home. And even if he wasn't, he'd still be taken away and put up for adoption- and who in their right mind would allow Sherlock and him of all people to adopt a child? Two single men, neither financially stable, one completely mad and the other overcoming PTSD?

No.

Of course, a sweet, pitiful boy like that would probably be snapped up right away, and probably by a lovely young couple with an Audi station wagon and a slobbery old spaniel. A semi-detached in Barnes or Kensington, and the grandparents would live on a little farm in the Cotswolds with an orchard and sheep and native cattle, just like the bloke off Countryfile. The little boy would grow up chasing piglets through the apple trees on the farm in summer and throwing bread to the ducks on the Serpentine in winter, a purple scarf tucked carefully around his neck...

John jolted so hard in his surprise that he actually took a step back. His fantasies had started out with a pleasant young blond woman and her vaguely Jamie-Oliver-lookalike husband, but finished with himself watching out the farmhouse window and Sherlock holding the boy's hand on the lake shore. He clapped both hands to his temples and met Sherlock's all-too-knowing eyes.

'I'm insane,' he muttered. 'I'm certifiably insane. Fine. Keep the kid. I'm going to the shops.' He spun on his heel and headed to the door.

'Don't forget milk!' Sherlock called after him. 'And get some colourful cereal and juice boxes and some edible things with cartoons on them.'

'Yeah, yeah,' John muttered. He was careful not to let the door slam shut on the way out.

.:*:.

John did indeed pick up a box of mixed berry-flavoured cereal, a number of different fruit juices, and boxes of macaroni cheese with the characters from some children's television show printed on the front. Some biscuits and ice cream, because he had a feeling the poor kid probably didn't get much of that at home. As his professional side was close to crying at the pitifully low numbers on the cereal's nutrition label, he also added a hefty stock of healthy snack foods to the trolley: apples, bananas, grapes, dried berries, carrot sticks, celery, crunchy peanut butter, hummus, whole grain crackers, oat biscuits, malt loaf, flavoured yoghurts, tea cakes. On top of all that, before he could forget to swing by the end aisles, went a child's soft toothbrush, swallow-safe toothpaste, some no-tears shampoo, and hypoallergenic shower soap.

At least one good thing would come out of this, he mused, eyeing a display of No Refrigerator Necessary Apple Sauce Squeezy Tubes- Eat On The Go! While Sherlock seemed to subsist on less to eat than a bug, the boy would be having three proper meals each day. Maybe his flatmate would learn to do the same, if John pointed out the necessity of positive role modelling. With that in mind, he shuffled things around to make more room in the trolley and added supplies for a week's worth of full breakfasts, lunches, and dinners for three: eggs, potatoes, sausages, frozen chicken breasts, things for salads and soups and stews and curries. He was rather enjoying himself, John realised, as the pile in the trolley grew ever higher. It was sort of nice, shopping for more than just himself or his mad, demanding flatmate. More than just sort of pleasant to be buying more than milk, hatchets, and pigs' bones. Well, that should be everything for now. He dug into his pockets to find the credit card...

The credit card. He'd taken Sherlock's, of course, but he never knew just how much was on the damn thing. The idiot turned down payments at the most inconvenient times, and his trolley probably added up to a couple of hundred pounds. Anyway, how was he going to carry it all home by himself? John cursed himself for ten kinds of idiot. He'd gotten swept away by a glowy little dream of it all, a kind and responsible Sherlock and a happy, bouncy little boy squealing 'Uncle John!' whenever he came home. And it all came crashing down at the thought of a credit card and a long walk. Typical. Sherlock would probably deign to laugh at him, were he here. Not that the man didn't have eyes and ears in the oddest places.

Hang on...

Suddenly quite cheerful again, John wheeled his trolley to the customer service counter and waited patiently until the bored-looking girl finished taking back a box of something from an annoyed older woman ('They just don't make things like they used to!'). When his turn came up, he smiled politely.

'Hi, could I leave my things here just a mo? I accidentally left my wallet in my car, just need to run out and get it,' he lied, very pleasantly.

The girl mumbled something John assumed to be assent, because she hauled the trolley behind her counter. He tucked his hands in his pockets, strode out of the store, and began looking around. There had to be...yes...there! John hurried down the block and across the street to the CCTV camera. Looking straight into it, he said, very clearly,

'Sherlock's going to steal the Queen's handbag.'

Then he stood there, idly humming and mentally counting down. _Ten...nine...eight...seven..._

A black town car pulled up in front of him without even the slightest squeal of breaks. The rear door was thrown open, and Mycroft stepped out, umbrella in hand and a distinctly unimpressed expression on his face.

'Doctor Watson,' he said crisply, and with every indication that this was _not_ a particularly pleasant surprise. 'I believe you have something to tell me?'

John smiled very sweetly. 'Actually, it's your driver I need. Alright?' he said, ducking a quick nod to the blank-faced woman still in the car. Anthea smiled slightly but didn't look up from her Blackberry. And to the driver, 'Would you mind driving round the block and pulling up in front of the shop doors down there? Give us about five minutes, yeah? Ta.' Then he shut the door. The driver hesitated. Mycroft raised an eyebrow (a rather Sherlock-like expression, really, but John valued his life too much to mention this), but John just kept smiling impassively, so the Holmes brother tapped his umbrella on the roof of the car, and it moved on.

'Now that you've commandeered my car,' Mycroft sighed, 'what is my dear brother up to, Doctor Watson?'

John shrugged, hands in his pockets. 'The usual, really. I lied about the queen. I'm pretty sure, anyway...you never know with him, do you? And he's stolen a boy, and I need you. Come on!'

He could understand why Sherlock did it, he thought, as he headed back towards the supermarket. It was annoying as all hells when you were the one left hanging, but being the one to walk away, knowing the irritated man behind him would follow, was rather satisfying. Indeed, Mycroft's shiny shoes were tapping along the pavement, quickly catching up. 'When you say, 'stolen a boy'...'

'It's nothing sordid,' John offered, as they ducked through the automatic doors. He wound his way quickly to the counter where his trolley waited and took it back with another quick, 'Ta!' Mycroft followed, silently but for the annoyed tapping of the umbrella on the linoleum tile floor, all the way to the checkout queues. 'He's a sweet kid, really. And I don't think we've _stolen_ him so much as _rescued _him, personally, but I suppose a court wouldn't necessarily see it that way.'

'I see,' Mycroft said, in a way that suggested he most certainly didn't but was either too polite or too suspicious to say so. 'Rescued from what, exactly?' He looked so out of place, standing in a shopping line at Asda with the harried mums and loud teenagers in his perfect pinstripe suit, that John almost wanted to laugh.

'A really unpleasant aunt and uncle,' he said instead, quietly. 'I know it's not exactly legal, but...just trust me on this one. He's a million times better off with Sherlock than he ever was with them.'

'An illuminating statement,' Mycroft murmured, tapping his umbrella at their feet. 'Very well. What is it you hoped to ask me to do? Give you legal rights to the child, I suppose? I must confess, I've never seen my brother as a particularly paternal type.'

John snorted. 'You wouldn't think so, would you? And I don't really know what we're going to do about the legal status thing yet. We've not talked about it.' The two heavily made-up girls in front of them finally finished paying for their cases of beer and John began piling his purchases out of the trolley to be rung up. 'You should see him though, really. Holding the kid in his arms and rocking him to sleep like it was the most natural thing in the world. And the boy's completely attached to him already, too. Trusts him more than he does me, and I reassure children for a living!'

Mycroft watched with a detached gaze as the teller swiftly scanned and bagged each item. 'Doctor Watson, as interesting and enlightening as this little chat has been, I am still entirely unaware as to what it is you called me for,' he said finally, a touch of impatience in his polished tones.

'That's two hundred twenty-eight, fifty-seven p,' the clerk cut in.

John turned to beam at Mycroft. The man scowled. John just kept beaming. Mycroft sighed, and reached into his pocket.

.:*:.

John refused to let the silence feel uncomfortable on the ride back to the flat. Mycroft sat sullenly- or as close to sullen as the stiff Holmes ever got, he supposed- next to his assistant, and the driver, a fair, youngish man who looked like he probably bare-knuckle boxed at the weekends, seemed to be biting his lip to hold back a smile. When they reached Baker Street, the driver rather decently came back to open the door and ask if he needed help with the bags. At a sigh and wave of assent from Mycroft, John happily accepted, and between the two of them, they hauled the trove of carrier bags up the stairs.

Before John could fumble for the door knob, Sherlock threw it open, staring at the driver with distaste.

'You're Mycroft's man,' he glared. 'I knew that was his car in the street. John!' Sherlock whirled to face his flatmate as John squeezed past him to head for the kitchen. 'Why is Mycroft here?'

'I asked him,' John called back, setting the carrier bags on the floor. Sherlock strode quickly to the kitchen, the driver trailing behind him.

'Why?'

John stared at Sherlock, then gestured widely to all the bags. 'You think I could've brought all this back walking? Besides, I didn't know if we could pay for it.'

He watched as Sherlock's eyes narrowed, quickly adding it all up. He brightened. 'Well done, John. There's hope for you after all. You, shoo.' Sherlock waved the driver impatiently out of the flat before John could even call out a quick thank you. 'How did you get him there?'

'I told him you were going to rob the Queen,' he replied, sorting through the bags to get the cold things into the refrigerator. 'Where's the kid?'

'In bed. Sleeping, one presumes. Did you get milk?' Sherlock wandered out of the kitchen and spun on his toes to flop gracefully on the sofa.

'Yes, I got milk. And cereal, and juice, and everything else you asked for, and everything else a growing boy should need for a little while. Did you at least make sure my gun was hidden away before you put him in there?'

John could hear Sherlock's scoff even as he sorted things into the freezer. 'Of course I didn't put him in _your_ room. You keep war relics and medical things in there. He might've stumbled across all sorts of dangers.'

John frowned and straightened up, wadding the empty carrier bags into a ball and moving on to the fruits. They had a fruit bowl somewhere; he knew they did...oh. There it was, on the counter and full of belt buckles, for some reason. 'Then where is he?'

Another scoff. 'My room, of course.'

John almost dropped the jar of peanut butter. 'What?'

Sherlock glanced over, frowning. ''What' what? Did you mishear, or do you object to my choice of location?'

John stared. '_Your room_? As in, the room I've never seen, and which is probably full of all sorts of completely child-_un_safe things?'

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'Of course it isn't. Safer than yours, even. My firearms are hidden behind much more than an easily-picked drawer lock.'

John sputtered. 'What do you- did you pick-' He threw his hands into the air. 'No. I'm seeing this for myself.' He strode towards the bedroom. Sherlock threw himself off the sofa to stand between John and the door, towering over him with a mulish expression on his face.

'No.'

'Why not?' John asked, crossing his arms. He'd respect Sherlock's privacy, but not if it meant leaving the poor boy in a room full of poisons and suspicious moulds. Sherlock probably never cleaned the place, for God's sake!

'He's fine,' Sherlock stated with finality. 'It's safe. It's clean. He has pillows and blankets. He has a monitoring system. What more do you want?'

John felt dread creeping over him. _My experiment_, Sherlock had declared. He imagined heart monitors and hidden cameras and needles... 'What kind of monitoring system, Sherlock?'

The detective grinned triumphantly, reached into the pocket of his trousers, and, with a dramatic flourish, pulled out-

'A baby monitor.' John sighed. 'Why do you even _have_ a baby monitor?'

Sherlock looked shifty for a moment, and John decided he probably didn't want to know, so he cut him off.

'Fine. No. That's fine. You keep that, and I'll leave him for now, but it's already seven o'clock and if he's not up on his own by eight you'll have to go in and wake him for dinner, okay?' John raised his eyebrows. 'This is important, Sherlock. He's severely underfed and suffering malnutrition like you'd expect to see in a child on the streets or in a third-world country. His aunt and uncle didn't quite starve him but they were close enough to it.' He put his hands on his hips, staring Sherlock down and trying to impress upon him the importance of what he was saying. 'He _needs_ to eat three healthy meals a day, every day, and snacks in between, alright? No skipping meals because you want to see how it affects his...skills, whatever they are, or having him eat only whatever junk you feel like eating. He'll end up in hospital from complications of nutritional deficiency soon if you do that. I get that he's your experiment, you're taking care of him, but I'm going to override you if you're not keeping him well. Do you understand?'

Sherlock fixed him with intent, pale eyes throughout his little speech, clearly taking in and analysing every word. John only hoped he chose to agree. Suddenly, Sherlock tsked. 'Well, obviously, John,' he sniffed. 'And I hope you intend to do something about your deplorable habit of eating nothing but sandwiches, takeaway, and the occasional forage through the fridge. That's hardly a good habit to teach him.'

And with that Sherlock swept away to the belt buckles, leaving John gaping in his wake. As always, he thought tiredly.

* * *

Wow, so much response so quickly! I thought I was one of only a few with a Sherlock/Harry crossover fix :) Anyway, I'll try to put this out fairly quickly and regularly. I'm also fixing a few little things- I accidentally had Mycroft calling John by his first name. Anyway. Thanks for watching!


	2. Chapter 2

'We need a name for him, you know,' John pointed out idly as he drained the pasta into the sink. 'We can't just call him 'boy,' and as he didn't seem to remember his given name...'

'Of course we can't call him 'boy,'' Sherlock snapped, not looking away from the laptop screen. John had glanced over earlier to see what looked suspiciously like a photo of someone's arm, minus the rest of the someone, and not been inclined to wonder further what the great detective might be doing. 'His wretched whale of an uncle called him 'boy.' I expect he'll recall his own name when he feels more at home here. Research suggests children will develop selective memory loss in traumatic circumstances which reverses when the trauma is removed or healed.'

John nodded, even though Sherlock wasn't looking at him, dumped the dry pasta into a pot, and poured half the contents of a jar of sauce on top. 'That's good, then, isn't it? So what do we call him for now?'

Sherlock leaned back from the laptop, wriggling and stretching his fingers. 'I don't know,' he said to the ceiling. 'I'm rather partial to Friedrich.'

John rolled his eyes. 'We are _not_ calling him Friedrich.'

'Gustav?'

'No.'

'Appleby?'

'No!'

'Frobisher?'

'You really do want the kid bullied, don't you?'

'Archibald.'

John didn't dignify that one with an answer, but threw the cooked chicken breasts into the pasta pot with a loud _clang_ of the tongs.

'You really are difficult to please, aren't you?' Sherlock puffed out a sigh. 'Balthazar. Desmond. Perkins, Hallstein, Spurgeon, Tet.'

'Spurgeon?!' John exclaimed, incredulous. 'You've just made that one up!'

'I did not,' Sherlock replied sharply, clearly affronted. He spun round in his chair to face him. 'Spurgeon Neel was an American Army doctor who developed battlefield aeromedical evacuations. I'd've thought you'd've approved of that one.' He gave John a rather huffy glare, as though John had both deeply insulted and disappointed him. He probably had, somehow, John thought with a sigh.

'Why does it have to be a strange name, anyway?' he asked wearily, as he pulled out plates and cutlery mercifully untouched by kitchen experiments. 'Why can't it be something simple and normal? His real name probably is.'

'What, something like John?' Sherlock sneered, and John bit his tongue to keep from snapping back.

'Not necessarily,' he replied evenly, and began shoving papers and beakers around so he could set the table. 'It can even be a historical name, if that'll make you happy. One of the kings, say. Richard or Edward or Henry.'

'If you won't name him something dignified like Friedrich, as in Friedrich the Great, why bother naming him after a Plantagenet?' Sherlock sniffed. Clearly, John decided, he really was cross about his perceived slight.

'Fine. Something historical, and more regal than a Plantagenet.'

'Egbert. Hengist.'

'No. Actually, I'm striking a line through all Saxon names right now.'

Sherlock muttered something that sounded suspiciously like _no fun _and drummed his fingertips together. 'Rollo. Wilhelm.' His eyes popped wide. 'Ooh, _Roland_.'

'No, no, and definitely not,' John sighed.

'Edmund.'

John thought. 'I suppose...it's a little old fashioned, though.'

'Geoffrey.'

'Definitely old fashioned.'

'Aulus. Lucius. Alfenos.'

'Dear God, no. Are you going to wake him up soon? Supper's getting cold.'

'It's only five fifty-five, you said he could sleep until six. Do try to be consistent, John. Hadrian.'

John was about to snipe about Sherlock's own consistency when the last word struck him, and held fast. 'Hadrian,' he murmured, as if tasting the name and the way it fell off his tongue. 'Hadrian. That's not bad, actually. Sort of...cool. Hadrian.'

Sherlock smiled smugly and swept off towards his bedroom to wake up Hadrian.


	3. Chapter 3

It was a long enough wait that John almost started to worry, but by the time he'd finished plating the salad, Sherlock was sweeping out of his bedroom with a sleepy little boy in his arms, murmuring something into the detective's ear.

'No, I don't think they would,' Sherlock replied gravely. 'Temporary revenges very rarely solve problems. Often enough the resentment is merely heightened. I rather think something more fitting could be devised, don't you? I suppose my dear brother could always provide us with a secluded place for imprisonment, a few months of forced starvation...'

'Sherlock!' John cried. He barely managed to refrain from slamming the butter dish on the table and upsetting Hadrian's glass of milk. 'What on earth are you telling him?'

Sherlock turned wide eyes on him and plopped the boy into a chair John had already stacked high with cushions from the sofa. 'Just pondering up a little retribution,' he said innocently as he sat in the free chair. 'I'll not let little Hadrian here grow up not knowing the importance of thorough and proper planning.'

The boy turned wide eyes on Sherlock. 'Who's Hadrian?' he asked, voice much too quiet for John's peace of mind. Boys his age should be shouting on default. Those wretched Dursleys must've taught him (and how, John didn't want to think) to be quiet.

'Why, you are!' Sherlock declared, and slurped down a mouthful of pasta. 'Hadrian Holmes. I believe you once suggested the name Hamish should I ever be in need of such things, John, shall we round out the alliteration and make that his middle name?'

Hadrian stared at them in awe. John rolled his eyes. 'Hadrian Hamish Holmes? That sounds like something out of a cartoon.'

'Hmm,' Sherlock muttered. 'Tricky. He must have a middle name, of course. I've got several. Mycroft has far too many for his own good. If Hadrian is to be a Holmes he must have at least one. Harry, what do you want for your middle name?'

John frowned, fork halfway to his lips. 'Harry?'

'Indeed. Harry, eat up, there's a good lad. Come on, I promise John's not poisoned it. Well. Probably. You didn't use the jar of oregano in the cupboard, did you John?'

John made a mental note to buy a whole new set of spices. 'No. Why?'

'Because it's not oregano,' Sherlock said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. 'Anyway. We couldn't possibly call him Hadrian all the time, it sticks out a mile. Little boys always have nicknames and his nickname shall be Harry.'

'But my sister's nickname is Harry!'

'Does she have a copyright?'

John sighed.

'Thought not,' Sherlock said smugly. 'Harry it is. All right with you, Harry?'

Harry himself had been following the discussion like a tennis match, and now nodded happily. John noticed he still hadn't so much as touched his fork or spoon. So did Sherlock.

'Harry, why are you not eating?'

Harry gave a surprisingly similar frown to the one Sherlock made when giving his pronouncement on the not-oregano. 'Not supposed to eat at dinner,' he said quietly.

Sherlock opened his mouth but John beat him to it. Gently, gently, gently, they had to do it. Wouldn't do to scare the boy off on his first night. 'Why are you not supposed to eat at dinner, Harry?'

The boy looked at him like he was asking why the sky got dark at night. 'Have to wait to see if there's any left,' he replied simply.

John felt his jaw drop and looked up at Sherlock. The man was frowning slightly, pursing his lips. John knew he too was thinking about the massive girth of the two male Dursleys. _Wait to see if there's any left_? He knew they were a despicable sort but honestly...

'How often at home is there not any left, Harry?' Sherlock asked slowly, now placing his fingertips lightly together.

Harry shrugged. 'Dudley's a growing boy and needs all he can eat to grow up big and strong like his daddy,' he recited, and John got the feeling he'd heard that statement at least a thousand times before. 'Dudley needs to eat properly so he can do well in school. Stupid freaks don't need any more than they get.'

John bit his lip. The child didn't seem upset or resentful at all; he'd rattled off the whole thing the same way he might list the alphabet or tell what classes he had at school. Dear God, what was he supposed to say now? _This _was why they couldn't raise the kid, he'd never know what to do in situations like this, worse than useless...

Sherlock leaned forward so he could peer straight into Harry's eyes. 'Now, little one,' he said, very slowly and softly, 'you seem a rather intelligent boy to me. Just a minute ago, what did I say your name was?'

'Hadrian Holmes,' Harry repeated dutifully. 'Or Harry.'

'Very good. And do you find the word 'freak' anywhere in that name?'

Harry scrunched up his face. 'No?'

'No, you don't. Which means you can't possibly be a freak, can you? Because you're a Hadrian, or Harry, which is a very different thing- it doesn't even have the same letters. Well, except the 'a', but you probably can't spell that well anyway.'

Harry's eyes were very wide.

'And you're a Holmes, which is what I am. And Mycroft, but we don't bother with him. So if you're a Hadrian, or Harry, and a Holmes, then you're certainly not a Freak, are you?'

Harry shook his head wordlessly. John just stared, wondering just how many child psychology books Sherlock had managed to read in the last few hours. Sherlock went doggedly on.

'And do you see Dudley anywhere around here?'

'No...'

'Well, then, we certainly don't have to worry about his eating habits here, do we?'

A slow, bright smile was widening on Harry's face. 'No!'

'So, what do you say to this lovely plate of dinner John's so very kindly made for you?'

The smile turned into a full-on beaming. 'Thank you, John!' he piped happily, and dug into his pasta, hand wrapped into a fist around his fork. Sherlock very patiently (and those certainly weren't three words John ever thought he'd string together) corrected Harry's grip, then flashed John a little smile, and tucked into his salad.

The rest of the dinner passed in three silences, puctuated only by the occasional 'Two hands on the glass, Harry, that's it' or 'Like some more bread?'- one awed and confused, one simply happy, and one very, very smug.

/

John waited until Harry was clean, dressed (in one of John's t-shirts, for now; they'd get him clothes and pyjamas tomorrow), and tucked up in Sherlock's bed with the baby monitor switched on before he dropped heavily into his armchair and looked hopelessly up at his flatmate.

'Sherlock...what the hell have we gotten ourselves in for?'

Sherlock raised his eyebrows as he began to meticulously rosin his bow. 'I can think of any number of answers to that statement. I assume you're talking about Hadrian?'

John rolled his eyes. 'Of course I'm talking about Hadrian! He's been seriously abused, Sherlock. Even if the aunt and uncle never hit him- and I don't think they did, sounds like they were too scared of him to even touch him- the cousin definitely did, and- did you _hear_ what he said at dinner? I knew they were starving him, but I didn't realise they were so cold-blooded about it!'

Sherlock didn't reply, but picked up his violin and started up a soft, mellow tune John thought he vaguely recognised. It made him feel sleepy.

'That's nice,' he said softly, so as not to disturb the music. 'Is it a lullaby?'

'Not really,' Sherlock murmured. He spun in a slow circle in time with the song. 'I made it up myself. Seems to work well enough as one, though.'

John frowned. He could've sworn he'd heard it before...apparently not.

'And of course I heard what he said at dinner. I didn't expect anything less. And you're quite right about the aunt and uncle.'

John thought for a long moment as Sherlock's lullaby moved into a still-familiar passage of light, twirling notes like dappled sunlight through swaying summer trees. 'What do you think they meant? About the...you know...'

'The magic?' Sherlock stopped spinning and fixed him with an intent look, still playing. 'No idea. It was something, wasn't it? Something real enough to terrify them, want him beaten down and far away. But magic's not real. Of course it's not. Unless...'

Then he was off again, slowly spinning, weaving a melody like a breeze over mossy ground. John didn't remember climbing into bed.


	4. Chapter 4

John didn't know if Sherlock slept in his bed with Harry, or on the sofa, or if he didn't sleep at all, but when he got up the next morning Sherlock was already zooming about the flat between his laptop, John's phone, and something faintly smoking in a glass jar on the dining table.

'John!' he cried, whirling about on this toes. 'Excellent. A case, John, a case!'

John sighed and made himself some tea and toast. He set plate and steeping cup on the counter for a minute while he ambled off to quickly shave, but Sherlock had already stolen both by the time he got back, so he made some more. 'How's Harry?' he asked, buttering his bread.

'Sleeping,' Sherlock muttered, peering into the glass jar. 'Will he always do so much of that?'

John chuckled. 'For a while, probably,' he said honestly. 'He's going to be easily fatigued until the malnutrition's taken care of. He's also probably got some physical exhaustion to sleep off, by the sound of all the chores they had him doing. And overcoming the mental trauma will be tiring, too.'

Sherlock looked disappointed.

'He's also a little boy,' John reminded him, slouching into his armchair and pointing his spoon in his flatmate's direction. 'That's what they do. They run round all day, crash for an afternoon nap, then run round all evening, and crash for the night.'

Sherlock sniffed. 'I never did anything so ridiculous at that age,' he scoffed, and prodded the jar. It emitted a sound like a belch and puffed out more smoke. John rolled his eyes.

'Riiight,' he muttered. 'Never done anything ridiculous in your life, have you?'

The sound of Sherlock's bedroom door opening cut off the expected argument as both their head's swivelled to see Hadrian creeping out into the lounge. John smiled.

'Morning, Harry,' he called. 'What would you like for breakfast? Cereal, eggs, yoghurt?'

Harry bit his lip and sidled cautiously into the room, keeping his back near the wall. John sighed unhappily. It looked like whatever progress they'd made last night had fizzled out with the dawn. He was about to try gently coaxing the boy into hopping up on the sofa (couldn't have him eating at the table next to Sherlock's God-only-knows-what in-a-jar) when Sherlock, ignoring all rules of dealing with skittish animals and children alike, simply swooped down and scooped the boy up in his arms. Harry squeaked and clung frantically to the broad shoulders as the tall man strode into the kitchen. Sherlock ignored him, and dropped him lightly onto the counter.

'Cereal this morning,' he said briskly, and set about pouring a bowl. 'We haven't much time. Harry, how do you feel about seeing a real crime scene?' He shoved the prepared bowl and spoon into Harry's hands and leaned back, arms crossed, waiting for an answer.

Harry gazed up at him, wide-eyed but clearly in awe.

John spluttered.

'No!' he cried, nearly spilling his tea as he leapt to his feet. 'No, no no. We are _not _taking him to a crime scene, Sherlock!'

Sherlock turned to him, looking genuinely curious. 'Why not?'

John felt his mouth gaping and shutting like a fish, and a tiny part of his brain sighed that he'd probably best get used to the feeling. 'Because- because- because it's an official _crime scene_, they'd never let him in! And if you're so excited then there must be someone dead, probably dead in a really grisly way, and he's much too young to see something like that?'

Sherlock cocked his head. 'Why?'

'_Why?'_

'Yes, why? He's already dealt with starvation, neglect, and physical and mental abuse. What harm will one body do?'

John paused. Reflected. Well, Sherlock had a point, really, Harry couldn't exactly be called an innocent child, and-

No. **_No._**

'No. He's not going. I refuse, Sherlock.'

Sherlock pouted, and fixed Harry with an exaggerated expression of tragic beseeching. 'What do you think, Harry?' he asked, sticking out his lower lip. Harry giggled through a mouthful of neon cereal, still sitting on the counter. 'Do you want to come to work with me today?'

'Yup!' Harry said cheerfully.

'Even if there's a dead body?' Sherlock persisted.

Harry's eyes were huge, now. 'Cool!'

Sherlock spun to face John, triumphant. 'See?'

John clapped a hand over his face. 'Fine,' he muttered, and went to fix himself more tea. It'd definitely be one of _those_ days. He could already tell.

'Make me one, too, John. Not so much milk this time.'

John growled like a bear. Harry giggled.


	5. Chapter 5

Sergeant Donovan stared as they approached the caution tape line. Granted, she always stared, even when it was just he and Sherlock, but John had to admit they looked particularly odd today: Sherlock in his usual greatcoat with the collar turned up to his pasty-white cheekbones (_ridiculous_, John thought). John's pockets bulging with what she couldn't know were an apple and little plastic sandwich bags of oat slices and biscuits and juice boxes. A little messy-haired boy, wearing his brand-new fleece-lined bright yellow rain coat with the hood printed like a chick's face and beak and the pockets done like little wings, each hand in one of theirs, swinging on their arms between them as he stomped each leftover puddle with his matching yellow wellies.

Yeah, he'd admit it was a bit unusual. He couldn't quite believe it himself, even as their odd little trio approached the police tape stretched across the street of pre-war terrace houses.

'What the hell's this?' she snapped.

Sherlock looked around blankly. 'I would've thought a crime scene, myself,' he said, mildly. 'Given that Lestrade invited us. Sorry, am I mistaken? Is it one of those swingers parties for the over-thirties you and Anderson so love to frequent? Dear me, John, Lestrade must be so embarrassed in there. Let's go save him.' He ducked under the police tape, dragging Harry and John with him by their entwined hands.

'No!' she yelped, cutting them off. 'Look, freak, I don't know what you think you're doing or who the- the _brat_ is, but-'

'Sergeant Donovan!' Sherlock thundered.

She went silent, shocked. Sherlock seized Harry under the arms- at the word 'brat,' he'd dropped their hands and started scooting back behind Sherlock's coat, clearly alarmed- and settled him into place against his shoulder. John had an odd passing thought that the great detective Sherlock Holmes cuddling a little boy in a yellow chicken raincoat at a crime scene was actually a rather adorable sight. If you were into that sort of thing.

'Kindly refrain from hurling such baseless, boorish abuse at Hadrian,' Sherlock snapped out in that sharp, measured tone he always used when he was very, very close to venting his anger by spilling all of someone's worst secrets and taunting them with their greatest fears. 'I realise that you have no manners to speak of but I'd've thought even _you_ could muster up a little courtesy to an impressionable child.'

John thought about throwing in a scolding of his own, but Harry turned out of Sherlock's shoulder to fix the stunned woman with big reproachful green eyes, and he decided he couldn't've done better, so he just murmured a quick little 'Remember, Hadrian, it's rude to call people names. Being rude isn't nice, and we don't like it when people aren't nice to us, do we?' into the boy's ear. Sherlock smirked, and John chose to ignore it. Well. The overgrown toddler certainly wouldn't take care of those sorts of lessons himself, would he?

Donovan had faltered at Sherlock's outburst but John could see it wouldn't last, and sighed, wishing Greg would just hurry up and come out of the row house so they could get on with things.

'Where the hell did _you_ get a kid anyway?' Donovan rallied. 'What is he, last descendant of Jack the Ripper? You'd like that sort of thing, wouldn't you?'

'Right, that's quite enough of that, thank you,' John said abruptly. Harry didn't need to hear this rubbish. Nor, for John's peace of mind, did he need to stay any longer than necessary at a bloody murder scene. He reached out and plucked Donovan's radio from its clip on her chest, ignoring her batting hands.'

'Hey! What the hell d'you think you're-'

'Detective Inspector Lestrade, Doctor John Watson here, we're waiting outside and being denied access and have a very tight schedule and I should probably point out that Sherlock is getting quite cross and impatient and I have no idea what sort of chemicals he might have hidden in his pockets,' he said loudly, drowning out the sergeant's protests. Lestrade's voice replied immediately.

'John, Christ- just let him in, for God's sake, whoever's at the perimeter just turn away and let them do whatever the hell they want. We're inside, John, downstairs.'

Donovan snatched her radio back. Other policemen were starting to look their way now, alerted by their own radios. 'But, sir, the freak's got this-'

'Step _back_, Sergeant, and let them through!'

Sherlock threw her a smug little grin as John held up the tape for him to duck under, holding Harry carefully to his chest. 'Say goodbye to the nice lady, Hadrian.'

Harry looked back over Sherlock's shoulder, stuck one thumb in his mouth, and obediently waved with the other hand, though he looked rather disgruntled at the order.

John rather thought he could hear Sally's teeth grinding as they made their way shoulder to shoulder through the mass of police cars to the open front door...but it was drowned out by Anderson's slimy voice as soon as they approached the front steps.

'Why does _he_ have to be here, it's an open-and-shut one-bullet-to-the-head suicide!'

'Shut it, Anderson,' Lestrade's tired voice replied.

They entered the house slowly, Sherlock taking a quick look around. John tried to observe, too; he knew he'd never get to Sherlock's level but it couldn't hurt to work his own brain a little.

The exterior of the through terrace hadn't been touched beyond necessary maintenance, he thought; at least, it looked just like all the others on the street. The inside had been remodelled, though. It looked straight out of an IKEA advert. White walls, little black shelves with knickknacks in dishes, narrow black hall table on the right wall with a key basket, small silver boxes, a slender vase holding a single white poufy flower John didn't recognise. A large mirror in a black leather frame between the table and the door; and between the door and the mirror, wall hooks holding a plain black umbrella, a plain black mac, and a plain black cashmere scarf, with a plain black leather briefcase on the floor below them. A bookcase before them, sticking out from the wall, marked the start of what looked to be an open living space.

On the left wall was a door, and Sherlock was already through it and tapping quickly down the steps. John followed. _A cellar_, he thought; had to be. The worn wooden stairs and red brick walls hadn't been touched here, and the light was dim. The temperature dropped several degrees, too, and John was suddenly glad he'd decided to buy Hadrian a pair of yellow fleece gloves to go with the raincoat.

The stairs opened out to, as he'd thought, a small cellar. Cement floor, brick walls, low ceiling. Lestrade and Anderson in the centre with a number of uniformed policemen. Black-suited grey-haired man sitting slumped against the right wall with blood spattered around him and a gun in his limp hand. Sherlock strode towards the DI and Harry stared at the body with his mouth wide open.

John sighed. Why, again, had he thought they should keep a child?

'Tell me,' Sherlock snapped.

'Er- right,' Lestrade said, brow furrowed a little as he caught sight of Harry. Sherlock didn't explain, and Harry just looked him over in interest, so he went on. Anderson looked like he'd swallowed a lemon. 'Right. Name's William Kennedy, age forty-seven, works as an auditor for a financial corporation in the City. Lived here three years. Before that he lived with his wife, no children, outside Oxford until they divorced. Neither ever claimed any abuse or major problems. Only things on his police record are a number of speeding tickets. Gunshot- er...um-'

Sherlock gave him a withering look. 'Whatever you have to tell me, you can say in front of Hadrian.'

Lestrade shook his head a little, and John knew that he wanted desperately to ask but at the same time his knowledge of Sherlock made him want to remain peacefully oblivious for as long as he could. 'Right. Well. Gunshot to the head, probably a day and a half ago- so sometime Tuesday evening. Neighbours heard nothing. Didn't know him too well, said he kept to himself.'

'Hmm.' Sherlock moved over to the body, crouching down to peer closely. He set Harry down and reached into one pocket for two pairs of gloves, snapping one set onto his hands and holding the other out. 'John, come have a look. Hadrian, why don't you go tell Detective Inspector Lestrade that even _you_ could figure out that this man didn't kill himself?'

Apparently, that was all the motivation Anderson needed to stop sputtering in a disbelieving freeze. 'No! _No_! That's it, _consultant_, I've bloody had it with you! Sir, you can't honestly allow him to bring a _child_ along like it's bloody show and tell!'

The other policemen went quiet. Harry grabbed Sherlock's hand and hid behind his coat as the man slowly stood, turning to face the forensic pathologist. John gritted his teeth and tried to finish his examination as quickly as he could. Oh, _why_ had he thought last night Sherlock could have a child?

'This is not a funfair, it's a crime scene! I will not have some little brat running about and messing everything up just because just because this bastard wants to swan in with his Satan spawn-'

'Language, Anderson!' Sherlock and Lestrade barked in unison.

Anderson seethed. Sherlock opened his mouth to say something no doubt highly insulting but then Harry leaned out from behind Sherlock's back, still clinging to his hand but hanging off his arm. 'You're not very nice,' he piped up with severe look. 'It's rude to call people names. John said so. And I'm not little, I'm _six_.'

Anderson's eyes bugged out. All the surrounding policemen went silent, except for a few sniggers. Then, Sherlock burst out with a single, uncharacteristic guffaw. 'Dear, dear, Anderson,' he chuckled. 'That's you told. Come along, Harry!' He swept the boy back up into his arms and loped off up the stairs.

John grinned happily at the pasty-faced man gritting his teeth before him. 'He was right, you know,' he remarked to Lestrade, who looked like a man who desperately needed a cup of coffee. 'No suicide. You'll have to call later, though, I don't want to leave them alone for too long- Sherlock has some odd ideas about children. I think he's seen too much late-night crap telly.' Clapping the DI on the shoulder, John bounded up the steps after the rest of the odd little army of 221B.


	6. Chapter 6

John stayed in quite a good mood all the way back to the flat. They decided to walk, trading off carrying Harry when his short legs got tired, as the rain had stopped; anyway, Sherlock needed to be exercised as much as possible if John wanted him to sleep at night. They'd stopped that morning at the M&S at the south end of Baker Street for the most necessary clothes- rain gear, pyjamas, underthings, socks, one set of warm clothing as the things they'd found Harry in weren't even fit for one of Sherlock's experiments. John had then had to convince Sherlock that little boys did _not_ require leather mechanic's aprons, chemistry goggles, or scald-proof engineer's gloves (he knew he'd lose this battle sooner than later, but it's always important to promote moral principles with Sherlock even when they're a lost cause), and convince Harry that he was worth spending money on, and herd them both out of the store when they got utterly, absorbedly fascinated by a toy train set ('It makes _sounds, _John!'). Following that had been an impossibly long cab ride to the crime scene during which Sherlock told Harry all about the benefits and logistic difficulties of committing a murder on a train.

Yes, a walk was in order.

Indeed, he was in such a good mood as Sherlock smiled benevolently down at their little chicken and telling a gruesome story about murder and the periodic table that he completely forgot about what was waiting for them at home.

'There you are, boys. I was getting ever so worried, I didn't hear you go out and it was ever so quiet upstairs!'

'Afternoon, Mrs Hudson,' Sherlock said breezily. 'Harry, say hello to our esteemed landlady, Mrs Hudson. Mrs Hudson, this is Hadrian. He'll be living with me and John from now on.'

''Lo,' Harry said obediently, and even with a hint of a sweet little smile, but he didn't let go of Sherlock's hand.

Mrs Hudson seemed uncomprehending for a moment. Then, her eyes filled with tears, and she seized John's sleeve in one hand and rapidly petted Harry's head with the other. 'Oh, boys, how _lovely_! I had no idea! How did you get the papers through so quickly? Probably something to do with that brother of yours, Sherlock. Oh, what a little gentleman you are, Hadrian!' She patted the alarmed-looking boy's flushed cheeks. 'Now, what are each of you called? I expect you're a 'daddy,' John, and Sherlock-'

'No!' John yelped, suddenly understanding the gleeful tirade. 'No, no no no, Mrs Hudson, it's not like that.'

'Oh, don't you worry, dear, next door-'

'No, Mrs Hudson,' John said firmly. 'It's not like next door.'

Her face fell. 'Oh,' she said, sounding very disappointed. 'Then...'

'Oh, come come, John,' Sherlock said cheerfully with a roll of his eyes. 'You've got 'daddy' written all over you in that jumper. What do you think, Mrs Hudson, am I more of a 'father' or- no, I don't like 'papa.' What else is there?'

'Oh!' Mrs Hudson cried delightedly, clapping her hands together.

John sighed and ushered Harry up the stairs. Sociopath his arse; Sherlock and the interfering, gossipy Mrs Hudson were two peas in a pod.

.:*:.

Sherlock bounced up the stairs from his moderately informative chat with Mrs Hudson (the married ones next door were trying for adoption and had had a domestic; children don't like vegetables; he shouldn't send John to the butchers for a few days, not sanitary; he _should_ send John to the bakery two streets over tomorrow, the owner was distracted and might accidentally give them an extra muffin!) to find John cooking something on the hob and Harry sitting at the table, swinging his legs, with a pack of coloured pencils and a stack of papers. He frowned and leant back against the doorframe to the kitchen.

'John, why are you cooking?'

'It's half twelve, Sherlock,' he replied without looking round and in his _if you're such a genius why are you such an idiot_ voice. 'Time for lunch.'

'What, we have to eat again? Already?' Surely this was the reason for the growing obesity epidemic. Too many meals 'normal' people had to eat each day.

'Yes,' John droned.

'But you're cooking peas in that yellow saucepan.'

'Well spotted, Sherlock, I can see how you do so well with mysteries.'

Sherlock smirked. Clearly John didn't know as much about children as Mrs Hudson and, now, himself. 'Wrongly done, John, I'm afraid. Hadrian won't eat peas.'

John looked up from doing things to a second saucepan of what smelled like pork, clearly confused. 'Why? Is he allergic? No, forget that. I don't care how clever you are, you can't deduce a rare vegetable allergy just from looking. Did Hadrian tell you he doesn't like peas?'

Sherlock pressed his lips together slightly in displeasure. Either John's response was inappropriate or Mrs Hudson's information was inaccurate. 'Children don't like vegetables,' he tried.

John grinned and snorted in surprised amusement and turned back to the stove. 'You got that off a late night soap, didn't you?'

Sherlock refused to answer. He never gave away his sources if he could help it, and Mrs Hudson was invaluable.

'It's just a stereotype that children all hate their veg, Sherlock, it's not usually completely true. Most of them really like at least corn or beans or something. Anyway Harry's been so deprived of food I think he'd be delighted to have anything.'

'Oh.' Sherlock watched Harry colour for a minute, already putting the faulty vegetable premise out of his mind. 'John, where did you find those pencils?'

'Er...they were in one of the bookcases, over there,' John said, finally looking round. 'Over by the fire. Why?'

'Ah.' Sherlock launched himself off the wall, hurried over and quickly gathered the pencils into their plastic bag. 'Sorry, Harry, you don't want to play with these. Here, have a pen.'

John leaned through the doorway. 'Sherlock, what's wrong with the pencils?'

They ignored him. Harry frowned up at Sherlock and his proffered biro. 'You can't colour with a pen,' he said matter-of-factly.

Sherlock frowned back. 'Why not?'

'Sherlock, what did you do to the bloody pencils?'

''S'got to have colours.'

'That seems rather narrow minded. What are you drawing?'

'SHERLOCK.'

'Not now, John. Harry's showing me his drawing of...er...what is this?'

John had been drying his hands and, judging by his eyebrows, working himself into a nice snit. At this, the snit faded, supplanted by obvious amusement. John was laughing at him. Why was John laughing at him? But Hadrian was the more immediate problem, because the boy looked utterly crestfallen in the wake of Sherlock's turning the paper over and around in his hands, trying to decipher the unnaturally coloured loops and scribbles...oh.

'Oh,' he said. 'Yes, it's a, er, it's very nice, Hadrian. Very skilful rendition of a...er...yes. Particularly this piece.' He gestured at a randomly chosen section of connected circles. 'Extremely reminiscent of Mondrian's later work.'

John snorted. Sherlock glared. Harry looked confused, but not unhappy. Something to remember- confusion overcomes unhappiness in children. Well, if all he had to do was confuse Harry every time he was upset, this child-raising lark would be even easier than he'd thought.

'That's nice, Sherlock. So what's the picture of?' John asked innocently.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. _Ooh, that was evil._ Harry was looking nervously hopeful again. 'Hadrian, why don't you go show John your picture while I wash up for lunch? He can tell you all his favourite parts while you wait for me.' _Hah!_ With a wicked grin and a click of his tongue at John's 'I'm a soldier and you're a dead man walking' face, Sherlock spun quickly and escaped to the loo.

.:*:.

Lunch was eaten in a slightly stiff silence, but John knew that _Sherlock_ knew he wasn't really cross with him, so he didn't worry too much. The self-professed genius had an attention span like a goldfish outside of cases and the only person he seemed to hold grudges against was Mycroft (and John carefully steered himself away from that minefield; apparently he had a 'face' he wore when thinking about the older Holmes brother, and Sherlock almost never missed it). Anyway, he couldn't bring himself to keep up any kind of a strop with the skinny, bony man when he was actually eating a meal for the second time in one day. Third time in two. Without complaint. And Harry was cheerful enough now that the picture (of a dog, a wolf, and a deer with big antlers, apparently; John thought perhaps Sherlock had been reading him bedtime stories from one of the animal anatomy books) was clipped in pride of place on the refrigerator.

So he was feeling very good, very good indeed when the doorbell rang, immediately followed by Sherlock freezing with a spoonful of peas halfway to his mouth and breathing out, '_Lestrade._ Harry, are you ready to make a fool out of Anderson?'


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock flung himself onto the sofa, quickly wriggling down onto his back with his arms flung to the sides. John blinked, then decided being found sprawling on the sofa was just another of Sherlock's 'necessary' dramatics, and started clearing his and Sherlock's plates. Harry looked interested but stayed in his seat, slouching down a little as heavy footsteps pounded up the steps.

'Finish up your lunch, Harry, Sherlock and Greg and I just have a little work to do,' John encouraged with a smile. The boy picked up his fork, but the slightly nervous expression didn't relax.

'You ready to stop playing your games yet?' Lestrade asked, puffing slightly as he shouldered his way into the flat. Mrs Hudson's cry of 'Really, boys...' floated up the stairs behind him. John leaned out the door.

'It's fine, Mrs Hudson, just Detective Inspector Lestrade.'

'Didn't even wait for me to open the door then left it wide open, and it's ever so cold outside...'

'Just some tea, please, Mrs Hudson.'

'I'm your landlady...!'

'Thanks, Mrs Hudson!' John called, and shut the door.

Behind him, Lestrade was eyeing his options. Sherlock was languishing indolently on the sofa, and John quickly took his usual armchair. That left only Sherlock's leather chair.

'Sit down, Greg,' John prompted.

Lestrade sighed, fetched a chair from the kitchen with only a sneaking glance at Harry, and brought it out to the sitting room with a dull thud. 'Right,' he said determinedly. John noted bags under his eyes, a greyish tinge to the skin, and slightly shaking muscles, and quickly diagnosed too little sleep and too much caffeine. 'No. Wait.' He twisted in his seat to frown at Harry. 'Sherlock, are those the pencils-'

'No,' Sherlock interrupted.

'What?' John asked quickly. 'Seriously, what's wrong with the pencils?'

'Nothing,' Sherlock snapped at the same time as Lestrade growled out, '_Evidence.'_

'Evidence of what?'

'Nothing!'

'A premeditated assault! You stole those out of the forensics lab!'

John slumped back in his chair and raised his eyebrows at his flatmate. 'Really, Sherlock? What did we agree about keeping a child and dangerous evidence in the same room?'

'Hardly dangerous, John.' Sherlock flapped one hand dismissively. 'The pencils were coated in the sap of Heracleum mantegazzianum. He washed his hands before lunch, there's no more sap on his skin. Keep him out of the sun for a day or two just to be safe and he'll be fine.'

John sighed and rubbed his eyes. Lestrade shot him a _sorry, mate, what the hell can you do?_ look.

'Now, do you want to explain to me what happened this morning?'

'Do you want to explain why you called me out for what your _illustrious_ team is so convinced is a simple suicide?' Sherlock drawled, eyes closed and hands drawn up to his chest.

Lestrade leaned back with a weary expression. 'The neighbours didn't hear anything, but the old lady across the street swears he went home that night with a young woman, probably a prostitute by her clothes. Said she knew right away she was the type of girl to slit a man's throat and steal his wallet.'

Sherlock frowned, still without opening his eyes. 'The nearest street light was fifteen metres from the doorstep. Quarter moon, small windows to the flats. How could she have seen?'

John chuckled. 'Let me guess,' he said with a grin. 'Miss Marple type? Pair of binoculars by every window? They've got nocturnal vision, I think.'

'Right in one,' Lestrade agreed with a sigh. 'Oh-'

The flat door opened and Mrs Hudson bustled in with a laden tray. 'Not that this will be any sort of a habit, mind you,' she scolded gently as she set the tray on the table between them. 'But you all seem so drawn and thin these days, a bit of tea and a few biscuits will do you good!'

'Thanks, Mrs Hudson,' they mumbled in unison. John quickly snatched a few biscuits (mmm, she'd gone for the good kinds, the ones with the chocolate coating on one side and the shortbread ones with raspberry jam in the middle) from under Sherlock's blindly wandering fingers and Greg's suddenly greedy eyes and put together a plate and cup for Harry, bringing them to the table where he still sat. He looked over the boy's mostly-empty lunch plate.

'Hmm. Did you finish all your peas?'

'Yes!' Harry said quickly, wide eyes locked on the biscuits.

'And all your meat?'

'Yes!'

'And all your milk?'

There were just a couple of swallows left, and John was about to say that was good enough, but Harry seized the glass (in two hands, John was pleased to notice) and gulped it down without breathing. He beamed up at the doctor. 'Yes!'

'Well, then, I guess you're alright for dessert, eh?' He set the plate and cup of sweet, milky tea next to the delighted boy and carried his lunch things to the kitchen, then went back to his armchair. Lestrade was staring like he was desperate to ask, a jam biscuit halfway to his mouth, but couldn't bring himself to do it. Sherlock wore a little smirk. John noticed he had chocolate crumbs at the corners of his mouth.

'So!' he said briskly, clapping his hands on his knees.

'So,' Sherlock repeated. 'Possible killer, possibly a prostitute. Not suicide.'

'How do you know he was killed?'

'Obvious,' Sherlock groaned. 'Obvious, obvious, obvious! What do you people _do_ with your eyes? Clearly not _look_.'

'Yes, well, in real police work, we need actual proof of things, not just a man on a sofa insulting our results,' Lestrade ground out.

'Boring.'

Lestrade sighed and scrubbed a hand through his short silvery hair. 'Just tell me, Sherlock, how do you know for sure it wasn't suicide?'

'Harry!' Sherlock called, sitting up. Harry grabbed his last biscuit, came at a sprint, and jumped up onto the sofa, tucking himself quickly into Sherlock's side. Lestrade groaned.

'Sherlock, I don't have time for this-'

'Hush, Lestrade,' Sherlock said loudly over his complaint. 'You should be paying very close attention so you can relay every glorious moment back to Anderson. Harry, are you right-handed or left?'

The boy blinked at him, then turned to blink at John. John gave him an encouraging smile. 'Which hand do you use to write and draw with, Harry?'

'This one,' he said promptly, squirming to face Sherlock properly and holding up the hand with the biscuit.

'Very good,' Sherlock said approvingly. 'Your right hand. The other is your left, but you are right-handed. Now, do you know what muscles do?'

Harry furrowed his brow. 'Umm...'

John chuckled indulgently. 'I don't think anatomy is on the syllabus in most preschools, Sherlock,' he pointed out. 'Harry, muscles are the part of you that make you move. Have you seen a picture of a strong man, like at a circus?'

Harry nodded. _At least he looks interested,_ John thought. _Poor kid. By the time he's ten he'll probably be qualified for med school, or a degree in forensic science. Or mad. _

By his twisted expression, Lestrade was having similar thoughts.

'Right, well, you know how the strong man has those big bulging arms? That's because he works the muscles in his arms a lot to make them strong, and when you work a muscle to make it stronger, it gets bigger.'

Sherlock flashed him a quick smile, clearly pleased that John knew exactly where this train of thought was going. John grinned back.

'And remember, I said muscles let you move, right? So they're everywhere- like in your fingers, when you write and draw, you're using the muscles that run along your fingers and hands. Does that make sense?'

Harry stuffed the biscuit in his mouth, held up his right hand and waggled his fingers as if he could see the muscles playing under his skin. He chewed quickly and swallowed. 'Muscles are everywhere that moves, and make it move,' he said confidently.

John noticed that the proud smile on Sherlock's face perfectly matched his own. He could only thank God Mrs Hudson wasn't there to see them. 'That's very good, Harry,' he said warmly, and he was being honest. Accurate summarising in his own words meant he really understood a fairly complex concept. _Smart kid_. 'Now, because you're right-handed, you probably don't do as many things with your left hand as you do with your right. So if you don't work the muscles of your left hand as much as you work the muscles of your right hand, what does that mean?' _Is this a long shot? Will he make the connection? Should I be going easier? Clara told me if you drop a cat toy on a table the cat doesn't even recognise the table as being solid, thinks the toy's dropped to the floor...how much smarter is a six-year-old than a cat?_

But Harry was frowning, thinking, and Sherlock had draped his arm on the sofa behind his back to drum his fingers lightly on the little shoulders. The three men stayed quiet for a long moment, waiting; then Harry perked up and met John's eyes. 'My right hand muscles are bigger!'

'Excellently done, Harry,' Sherlock rumbled. 'What a brilliant little boy, isn't he, Lestrade? He's beat half your team already. Crime scene photos.'

When Greg didn't seem to make the connection, John reached over and picked up the file of photos, rifling through it quickly until he found the ones Sherlock would want. He handed them over and set the file on the table.

'Thank you, John. Now. Harry. Here are the photos of the dead man's hands. Does one look bigger than the other? Look around index fingers- that's this one, here- and the base of the thumbs, especially.'

Sherlock handed the boy his magnifying glass, and Harry peered at the photos. It wasn't long before- 'That one,' he said decisively, poking at one of the photographs.

Sherlock positively beamed. '_Very_ good. And which hand is that?'

'Umm...' Harry held out his own hands, then twisted them around to face the other direction like the man in the photo. 'Left.'

'Correct. And which hand is he holding the gun in?'

'Right.'

'Correct again. Lestrade, is there anything you'd like to say?'

'Yes.' Lestrade rose from his chair and snatched the last four biscuits from the tray, ignoring Sherlock's yelp of protest. 'Thank you, Harry.' He grinned a little at the boy, then was gone, hurrying down the stairs.

Sherlock turned to pin Harry with a very serious look. 'That, Harry,' he said gravely, 'is what we call boorish ingratitude. You do not steal biscuits from people who have just done you a very great service.'

Harry nodded, equally grave.

Then Sherlock leapt from the sofa to the open door. 'Mrs Hudson!' he bellowed. 'Bring any more biscuits you've got! It's of vital importance!'

John shook his head, mentally despairing of ever teaching Hadrian anything resembling proper morals.

Sherlock threw a surprisingly dirty grin back over his shoulder. 'Don't be so dull, John,' he said cheerfully. 'I'm doing this for you, you know. That was your share of the biscuits he stole. Anyway, older women shouldn't eat so much sugar.'

* * *

**COMMENTS AND TWO REQUESTS**

First, I promise I won't do many of these. I just want to say a massive, awed thank you to everyone who's read, followed, favourited, and reviewed this story. Without your overwhelming and wonderfully positive response it'd be a stubby little thing with weeks in between updates. Hugs all!

Now: several people have asked if I'll explain how Sherlock got Harry in the first place; don't worry, I will! It's coming, just be patient. This will be a long story and I plan on introducing the main characters/themes a little slowly to set it all up properly.

Several others have asked if this will be Johnlock slash. If you will choose to continue or stop reading based on whether there is or is not slash, send me a review or private message with your concern and I'll private-message you back with a summary of where the story's going and what the relationships will be like. No worries, I have no problem with some people being diehard Johnlocked and others just not caring for a pairing :)

The lovely ds862 suggested I also post this at Archive of Our Own. I think this is a great idea (sounds like the AO3 Sherlockian community is a pretty awesome group!) but I'm not a member of the site, and when I tried to set up an account just now I was informed that I'm number 17961 on the waiting list and should get an account in about a month. Well, I have no patience. I burn my tongue every single time I make pancakes because I can't wait for them to cool. I don't really know how the invite thing works, but would any of you sweet and altruistic readers be willing to send me one?

Anonymous 'rabidreader' wants fanart of Harry in his raincoat walking along with Sherlock and John. OMG YES PLEASE. If any of you are artsy people or know someone who'd do it, I'll reward you with a oneshot or something (I'm about as good at drawing as Harry). Send me a review or message with the links/locations and I'll post them up on my profile so everyone can share the love.

Ta!


	8. Chapter 8

_Notepad_

Click.

Type.

_To-do list for today_

_-Enrol Hadrian in primary school, to start after the winter holidays_

_ -Get Mycroft to make whatever papers we need to do this: identification, old school records, etc.?_

_-Sneak away from Sherlock to thank Mycroft for all the children's clothes and books and things he sent_

_ -Tell Mycroft not all children are prodigy geniuses like he and Sherlock probably were, so it was a very nice thought but we won't need the __Beginner's Guide to Astrophysics and Planetary Geology__ or 'Junior Professional's Mechanical and Electrical Engineering Supply Set' just yet. Normal kid's books on space pirates and a box of legos are fine._

_ -Give those two things to Sherlock, he needs them anyway_

_ -Actually, don't tell Mycroft anything. Those were probably meant for Sherlock all along, he just knew Sherlock wouldn't take them if they were sent directly to him._

_ -Mycroft, you're probably reading this through a camera in the flat or a keylogger you've stuck in my laptop. If you and Sherlock were both twenty years younger it'd be kind of adorable. Also, please stop bugging our flat. Sherlock makes a huge mess when he goes searching for the cameras and then he sulks for the rest of the day while I have to clean up. _

_-Make appointment with optometrist. I think Hadrian's near-sighted._

_ -Find a way to convince Hadrian he should tell us if he has problems like not being able to see._

_ -Talk to Sherlock about talking to Mycroft about the Dursleys._

_ -Make appointment with Greg at the pub. He probably thinks we kidnapped Hadrian and hasn't asked because he doesn't want to have to arrest us._

_ -Find a way to tell Greg we kidnapped Hadrian without making it sound illegal._

_ -Tell Mycroft first, in case Greg DOES arrest us so he can get us back out again._

_ -Ask Mrs Hudson to make some cakes to send to Mycroft so he's either pleased or distracted by guilt and therefore not cross with all the favours he's doing us lately._

_ -Ask Mrs Hudson to make some cakes for us, too. Or only us if she doesn't want to make so many. Mycroft shouldn't eat cakes anyway, according to Sherlock._

_ -Mince pies are ok too if she doesn't want to make cakes._

_-Get some mini mince pies at Tesco. And the iced ones._

_ -Don't let Sherlock tell Harry that story about the Mince Murders._

_-Ask Sherlock to stop picking my bedroom lock. He won't listen, but I have to ask anyway on principle._

John slouched down in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck. He wasn't too cross this time, because it meant that his door was unlocked when Harry came running in from some kind of nightmare about scary men and flashing green light, but sometimes Sherlock stole his clothes for experiments (Sherlock still wouldn't admit it, but he _knew_ he was missing a pair of pants and it didn't run off in the laundry!) or simply poked through his things out of interest. Still, though. Unlocking his door after John had gone to bed last night was a bit creepy. And why hadn't Harry gone to Sherlock, anyway? Now he thought about it, he still wasn't entirely sure how their sleeping arrangement worked. And as Harry had preferred to cuddle in with John rather than go back downstairs, he probably wouldn't find out any time soon.

John set his laptop on the side table and stood up with a stretch, reaching his arms back and up. The red jumper he wore over his pyjama top rode up a little and he lowered his arms quickly. He was growing a little thicker around the middle with all these regular meals, he just knew it. Losing a little of his combat-level fitness was only to be expected as a civilian who didn't have to trek miles a day to his patients through thirty-five degree heat wearing his own body weight in armour and supplies, but he didn't intend to get stodgy and slow just yet, either. Sherlock somehow managed to remain wiry and leanly muscled just through the occasional sprint round the city, but John had always needed a little work to build up and keep his muscle.

'It's the biscuits.'

John's hand was halfway to a nonexistent weapon at his waist before he checked the impulse. 'Jesus Christ, Sherlock. Can't you make any noise coming in like a normal person?'

Sherlock gave him that _poor little ignorant primate_ brow-raise. John sighed and rubbed his cheeks.

'Just do it to humour me, yeah? Anyway, what's the biscuits? Are they poisoned?' He paused. 'Where've you been all morning, anyway? Harry's still asleep in my room but I've been up for hours.'

Sherlock huffed out a laugh as he slung his coat over the chair inside the door. 'I've been out. Gathering information.' He unwound his blue scarf as he crossed to John, draped it over the back of his own chair and dropped into it, all graceful long folding limbs. John plopped down into the armchair with a tiny spark of envy. 'The biscuits. Your perceived weight gain and loss of fitness. Though you shouldn't worry too much, I estimate you'd still pass a military fitness test without any trouble.' He picked up the newspaper John had left on the table and shook it open.

John frowned. 'How did you know what I was thinking about?'

'You were standing in the middle of the room, blind to the world and entirely focussed on your stomach,' Sherlock droned, and John knew behind the paper he was rolling his eyes. 'You've gained, I think, about half a stone since we moved in. When I entered and startled you- not to your credit, that, by the way- your reaction was a nonstandard and military-reminiscent one. So, thinking about your army days.' Sherlock lowered the paper just enough to meet John's eyes. 'Not exactly a difficult leap,' he drawled smugly.

John ignored the arrogant prat for a minute and lifted his jumper to stare in dismay at his stomach. 'Half a stone? You really think so?'

Sherlock shook the paper back into place. 'I told you, it's the biscuits. You're obviously a person fixated on tea- you go to it for comfort, for normalcy, to cover what you identify as awkward moments.' One long-fingered hand waved in an idle gesture with each point. 'Biscuits are a typical part of a normal tea regime. Before the army you were in medical school, on a tight budget, probably; you would've gone for whatever was cheapest at ASDA and not eaten many at a time because they couldn't have tasted very good. They weren't available while you were in the army, and when you came back you'd've gone straight for the ASDA or Tesco bargain brand out of habit. Then you move here, to 221B, with a steady supply of Mrs Hudson's finest. Suddenly you're not eating just one or two biscuits once or twice a day, but a handful of high-fat, high-sugar biscuits with nearly every cup- say five or six times per day. You're exercising, but not enough to keep up with that kind of intake.' Sherlock lowered the paper again to give him a pitying look. 'It's the biscuits, John.'

'Yes. Well,' John grumbled, feeling more than a little put out. It wasn't _half a stone_. Four pounds, tops. 'Anyway.'

'It is half a stone, John. You've gone up two spots on all your belts. The only reason you've not gone up three is that you've stretched the leather through repeated use and force.'

'_Anyway_,' John snapped. 'That's another thing. Will you _please _stop breaking into my room? I realise you have no concept of personal space or privacy but picking my lock in the middle of the night is just creepy. Really.'

Sherlock brought the newspaper down into his lap with a crunch and a deep frown. 'I didn't unlock your door last night.'

John cast his eyes to the ceiling. 'Of course not,' he said exasperatedly. 'The little green men did it. Seriously, Sherlock, I'm not...cross, or anything, it's just really inappropriate to come into my room while I'm sleeping. If you need something just text me, or- you know, you could always do this thing called _knocking_-'

'John,' Sherlock interrupted, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees and his chin on his hands. 'I did not unlock your door last night.'

John rolled his eyes. 'Right. So I suppose it just magically happened to open when Harry came in to-'

He froze. Sherlock stared at him, pale eyes fixed and intent.

'No,' John whispered. 'No, Sherlock. It's not real. Whatever the Dursleys were saying, it wasn't real.'

Sherlock didn't answer; just held his gaze, as if he was seeing the memory played out in John's mind.

A door opened and shut above their heads. Soft footsteps padded down the stairs, and the door behind John opened.

'Morning,' Hadrian yawned, rubbing his eyes.

John turned in his seat and stared at the boy. His hair stuck out everywhere, and his new red-and-white striped flannel pyjamas (courtesy of Mycroft) were rumpled and twisted. He found himself unable to speak.

Sherlock apparently didn't. 'Good morning, Harry!' he said cheerfully. 'You've slept late, it's nearly ten. What would you like for brunch?'

Harry shrugged, coming forward to stand between them. He wore little sheepskin slippers, too, the kind John often saw girls and young women wearing, and a blue dressing gown just like Sherlock's except that it was made of felted wool. Mycroft had clearly spared no expense, and John worried just a little that he'd had similar thoughts to Mrs Hudson.

'I can make you some cereal and cut up some fruit if you're hungry now,' John offered. 'Or make eggs or pancakes if you can wait.'

Harry shrugged again. 'Cereal's fine,' he mumbled, peering at John. The doctor mentally confirmed his diagnosis of nearsightedness.

'Sure,' he said with a smile, and got up and headed to the kitchen. 'D'you want the berry marshmallow kind or the cinnamon sugar cheerio one?'

'Umm...cheerio one, please.'

John quickly put together the cereal and sliced an apple onto a plate, carrying them out to Harry where he'd curled up on the sofa. Sherlock had gone back to his newspaper. 'Harry,' he asked hesitantly, sitting on the sofa next to the boy. 'Was my door open when you came in last night?'

Harry shook his head, popping an apple slice into his mouth with a crunch.

'Was it locked?'

Harry stilled, and slowly looked up at him. He shook his head again, wordlessly.

John glanced over at Sherlock to find him staring intently at the boy. Deducing, but not offering help. John clicked his teeth. 'Well, Harry, you know it's not a problem if you want to come see me at night, right?' he said encouragingly, waiting for the boy's nod before going on. 'Because I lock my door sometimes but that's just to keep Sherlock from doing strange things while I sleep, I'm not trying to keep you out. So if you need to...do...something, to get the door open, because I've locked it against the invasive lunatic sitting over there-' he waved a hand at Sherlock who looked affronted, but Harry giggled, so John ignored him- 'then...that's fine, yeah? Whatever you did last night, it's fine.'

Harry looked skeptical, but a little brighter as he nodded this time. John took this as a good sign, and pushed forward.

'Right. So, did you unlock my door somehow last night when you came in?'

Harry hunched his shoulders a little, but nodded. 'Yes,' he whispered.

'Right...right. Okay. Do you know how you did it?' John asked, pressing his hands together to stop them shaking just a little.

Harry shrugged. 'Dunno. I just wanted it open and it opened,' he said simply.

'Interesting,' Sherlock murmured, and John breathed out a sigh of relief that the irritating detective had _finally_ decided to join the conversation. But then, 'I think that's enough for today, don't you, John? Now, we've got lots to do. Starting with talking to that neighbour. Oh, and I need you to send a text.'

John warred with his curiosity and his pride for about five seconds before he pushed himself to his feet and fetched his phone. 'What and to who?'

'To whom, John. To Mycroft, and the message is: 'Your humour is unappreciated. Knowledge of the universe has never been beneficial in your life thusfar except as a comparison to your ever-expanding waistline. SH.'

* * *

This story has a twitter so I can stop leaving footnotes. Twitter slash HadrianHolmes. Ta!


	9. Chapter 9

Three months into his first tour in Afghanistan, John learned that if things were going well, some sods-law rule of the universe would make sure a catastrophe came along just to ruin it all again.

On his second tour, he learned to only smile and laugh with the other lads, never on his own, just in case there was a limited supply of the good emotions and when they reached the bottom of the jar that catastrophe was waiting to strike.

On his third, he learned to stop looking at the stars or noticing the brilliant red of the poppy fields, just so he'd have a little more time to see a young private's face with hope in his eyes.

He might tease Sherlock about not knowing the stars, but he caught himself before he could look up some nights, just in case.

.:*:.

'Sherlock!' John called, shrugging into his black coat. 'I'm going out for a bit. I've left you a list of things to do and not do with Hadrian after he gets out of the bath, alright?'

Sherlock suddenly appeared around the kitchen doorway, eyes narrowed. 'Out? Where?'

'The surgery needs me to come in for a little while,' John said, trying for a realistic mix of casually light and mildly annoyed. 'Apparently I mixed up a couple of intake forms and they want to confirm that they've got the patient records correct. I'll probably get roped into helping out with getting some of the newer records into the system while I'm there, but I'll be back this afternoon.'

If he didn't know better, John would've said Sherlock was holding back a pout. 'We're interrogating the neighbour today,' he protested.

'We can do that this evening,' John pointed out as he zipped up his coat. Snow wasn't falling yet, but frost slicked the ground and patterned the windows every morning and a sharp bite crisped the air. 'I'll be back in plenty of time, I swear. Now. List is clipped to the fridge. Make sure Harry gets lunch, yeah? Probably between one and two so he doesn't spoil his dinner? Phone in for takeaway if you can't do your usual charm Mrs Hudson into doing something up.'

Sherlock looked faintly insulted. 'I don't _charm_ people, John. I get my way by pointing out that my way is the most logical and expedient.'

John rolled his eyes and stepped out onto the landing. 'Suuure you do. Pointing all that out while you flash your cheekbones and do that big eyes half smiley thing, making it sound like the whole world's against you.' John mimicked Sherlock's habit of dropping his chin and fluttering his eyelashes and dramatically waving his hands as he clomped down the steps to the front door. Sherlock thundered down after him.

'I do _not_ do anything remotely-'

'Oh! I was wondering what all the noise was about.'

'Sorry, Mrs Hudson,' John apologised, as their landlady poked her head out her flat door. 'I have to go into the surgery for a while, would you mind keeping an ear out while I'm gone? I've left Sherlock a list, but...well. Any big bangs, shrieks...' He offered her that weary _what can you do? It's Sherlock._ smile they so often shared, and she melted.

'Of course, Doctor. Sherlock, I hope you're looking after poor Hadrian properly! He seems such a shy little boy.'

'Mrs Hudson,' Sherlock said, fluttering his hands down onto her shoulders and tilting his head down a little so he could peer up at her through his eyelashes. 'Whatever John has told you can be dismissed. I am an excellent caretaker for our dear Hadrian.' He softened his gaze and lifted one side of his lips in a weary half-smile. 'Even at mealtimes, when I have to stop myself in the middle of complicated and painstaking life-saving experiments and abandon them to cooking-'

Suddenly he stopped, and froze. Then he turned to John, who couldn't have held back his smirk if his life depended on it.

'Oh, shut up, John,' Sherlock snarled, and stormed upstairs.

John was still chuckling halfway down the block.

.:*:.

John decided to make things easy for Mycroft. First he took a left out the front door and headed south down Baker Street, because that's what Sherlock would expect to see if he really were going to the surgery; then he went left again, and headed east along Marylebone Road, because with Madame Tussauds on one side and a University of Westminster building on the other it was impossible that he wouldn't be picked up by at least a few CCTV cameras, despite the tourists and double lanes of cars. He ambled on past the Princess Grace Hospital, which had more cameras, to pick up a cup of coffee at the Crypt and Goose Cafe, which didn't seem to even have a security camera, but John didn't mind because the name made him think of Sherlock and stifle a chuckle.

To avoid going past Baker Street again he made a twenty minute loop of the Outer Circle and Rossmore Road, finally turning south again when he was far enough west and heading down Harewood to Marylebone Station. He stood out front the brick gate, sipping his coffee and feeling rather pleased with himself. He might not have a perfect map of London in his head like Sherlock did, but he knew where to wander to attract a Holmes.

Soon enough a black car pulled up and the door opened. John got in.

'Hi,' he said to the woman in the back.

She gave him a pitying smile. 'Hi,' she said, and turned back to her Blackberry.

'Right,' John muttered, clasping his hands between his knees. He tried to marshal his thoughts into line. Things had been going so impossibly well with Hadrian, and Sherlock, and work- life in general. He'd been happier for the last week than he had in half the years before he met Sherlock combined. He knew that catastrophe was hanging low over his head by now, but damn it all if he wasn't going to be ready for it.


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock snatched the list off the fridge and scanned it quickly. _Do this, do that, don't do any of these...what did John think he was, an ignorant child?_ Several of the items had been scribbled hard in capital letters, as though the doctor had doubted whether Sherlock would actually read the damn list and intended to make sure the most important points would catch his eye whether he wanted them to or not.

**FEED HIM A SOCIALLY ACCEPTABLE LUNCH AT A SOCIALLY ACCEPTABLE TIME. ASK MRS HUDSON FOR SUGGESTIONS IF NEEDED.**

**DO NOT INCLUDE HIM IN ANY EXPERIMENTS INVOLVING FLAME, HIGH HEAT, EXTREME COLD, TOXINS, POISONS, ACIDS, LIKELY ALLERGENS, EXPOSURE TO BLOOD OR HUMAN BODY PARTS, DEAD ANIMALS CONSIDERED IN TYPICAL SOCIETY AS 'CUTE', BROKEN GLASS, SMOKE OF ANY KIND, DRUGS INCLUDING HALLUCINOGENICS, CARCINOGENICS, GASSES, ANYTHING ELSE THAT COULD POTENTIALLY ASPHYXIATE, LIVE OR LOADED WEAPONS, HEIGHTS, DEEP WATER, OR LIKELY PHOBIA TRIGGERS INCLUDING SPIDERS.**

**IF HE WANTS TO COLOUR MAKE SURE YOU'VE NOT GIVEN HIM THE POISON PENCILS. YOU COULD JUST THROW THEM OUT OR GIVE THEM BACK AND SAVE ME HAVING TO PUT THEM IN LISTS.**

**REMEMBER HE MIGHT NEED A NAP.**

**DON'T LET HIM EAT MORE THAN A FEW BISCUITS, NO MATTER HOW MANY MRS HUDSON BRINGS UP.**

**DON'T MAKE MRS HUDSON BRING UP BISCUITS, SHE'S AN OLDER WOMAN WITH A BAD HIP AND YOU CAN TAKE THOSE STAIRS IN ABOUT FIVE STEPS YOU LAZY SOD.**

**DON'T LEAVE HIM ALONE.**

**DON'T TAKE HIM ON A CASE.**

**DON'T GO OUT WITHOUT TEXTING ME WHERE.**

**PLAY WITH HIM.**

Most of the rest of the list merely reiterated these main points in different ways and Sherlock quickly scanned through them without finding anything of particular note. He glanced at the little digital clock on the oven. _Socially acceptable lunch at a socially acceptable time._ John should have been more specific, he thought sullenly. If Sherlock went by socially acceptable Spanish standards he wouldn't have to think about lunch until three or four, perhaps, while for a period the ancient Romans had believed it healthiest to eat only one meal a day, which Hadrian had already had, which would mean he didn't have to think about lunch at all.

John probably wouldn't like that argument, though, he reflected, and if he were perfectly honest with himself (which he always claimed to be, and in fact always was, but only in a very tiny attic room of his mind palace) when he'd spied the marks of starvation on the boy and John had clinically listed every sign and symptom, he'd wanted nothing more than to spirit Hadrian away to Mycroft and let his effusive older brother unleash his most lavish epicurean ways upon the child.

He smirked slightly. An image, indeed. And one he had a feeling would soon enough come to pass, given where John had just sneaked (_so he thought; really, John, don't you know you only wear that jumper you bought at an outpost in Afghanistan anymore when you go to see my brother? Reminds you of being a soldier, makes you feel stronger, more equal to him; you don't have to do that, Mycroft's a snivelling prat and you're worth ten of him in any jumper_) off to.

'Hadrian! How do you feel about going out for Italian food?'

The boy wandered into the kitchen. Sherlock wondered briefly what he'd been doing. 'Are we 'llowed to go out?'

Sherlock frowned. 'Of course we are. Why wouldn't we be?'

Hadrian shrugged and sat on a kitchen chair, swinging his legs. 'John didn't say we're going out today.'

There was a long pause in which Sherlock very nearly tilted his head and fluttered his hands, but caught himself with a firm mental _NO_. 'Is there a reason,' he asked evenly, instead, 'that John should have the final say on all of our actions?'

Harry shrugged again. Sherlock made a mental note to end that irritating habit as quickly as possible. 'John makes the rules,' he said simply.

'Does he.' Sherlock eyed the boy with mild consternation and quickly reviewed their interactions from meeting to now. Indeed, John had made most of the decisions when in the child's presence, and probably gave off a more identifiable aura of disciplinarian. That wouldn't do at _all_. 'I am equally as adult as John and equally entitled to the various privileges that accompany adulthood,' he informed Harry, and assumed that would be the end of the conversation, but the boy fixed him with narrowed green eyes.

'What 'bout...the freakish stuff?' he asked, cautiously waving a hand in an expansive and incomprehensible gesture.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed in return. 'I'm not sure what you mean by 'freakish,' as we have already had that discussion,' he said, slowly and clearly, and how did people normally deal with children? So slow and confused and if this particular one weren't so _interesting_ he knew he'd probably simply have snatched the boy away from his unsuitable relatives and handed him off to Lestrade. 'But if you mean the..._magic_...' And he'd debated with himself over that term, but he'd also read half the children's books in the shop, and apparently for Hadrian's age group everything was either normal or controlled by magic or absurd 'futuristic' science, so he was left with no alternative. '_Magic_ is perfectly acceptable to both John and I, equally.'

'So...it's not freaky I can do things?'

God help him. 'No. It is certainly _not_ freaky.'

'Even though I went in John's room?' the little one persisted. Sherlock sighed and squatted down in front of him so they were eye to eye.

'Didn't he already say that was alright?'

'Yeah...'

'Yes, not yeah, please, Hadrian.'

'Yes,' Harry repeated dutifully. Sherlock's smile turned sharp.

'Good. D'you think you could do it again?'

Harry frowned, his eyebrows pressed together with a little wrinkle between them. 'Yeah- yes? I dunno, sometimes I just think I want out of my cupboard and it works and sometimes it doesn't for a long time.'

Sherlock passed over the cupboard comment for the time being; he'd figured that one out the first night when he'd come upon Harry curled up in his wardrobe. 'Good,' he said enthusiastically, pasting a bright smile on his face. 'Do you like Italian food?'

Hadrian raised an eyebrow in such a mimic of his own common expression that Sherlock was a little impressed. 'Dunno? Aunt P'tunia says foreign food is bad.'

'Yes, but we've already established Aunt Petunia is an idiot, haven't we?' Sherlock reminded him. Hadrian giggled. 'Now. Italian food. Spaghetti, lasagna, garlic bread, pizza. Do you like those?'

Hadrian thought for a long moment, which pleased Sherlock greatly. He wouldn't have _his_ child blurting out answers without considering them first. 'Never had pizza,' the boy finally said, pensively. 'I like psghetti-'

'Spaghetti.'

'-spaghetti, though. And Dudley like pizza.'

'Spaghetti and pizza it is, then,' Sherlock announced, and scooped the boy up to rest on his hip as he unfolded to his feet. 'I'll lock the front door, and as soon as you get us out we'll go to Angelo's.'

.:*:.

The rest of the drive passed in the usual (and when the hell did he start thinking of semi-consensual kidnappings as usual?) awkward silence and he was, also as usual (and he really needed to get out more, make some normal friends) a little relieved when the car entered Hammersmith, fully expecting to stop in front of an old industrial building.

They didn't.

The car went on, crossing the bridge into Barnes, and finally pulled up in the car park to the Wetland Centre.

Well, that was different.

John got out, a little perplexed, and when Mycroft's PA did nothing but glance at him and tilt her head in the direction of the park, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and started walking. He'd never been before, but decided to follow the path anti-clockwise just to be a little irritating and so he wouldn't have to pass the visitor centre buildings. The water was high and the reeds dying back for the winter. A few ducks drifted across the surface of the pond, but everything was fairly quiet, and no-one else had braved the chill and threat of rain. Mycroft and his ever-present umbrella weren't to be seen, though, either, and John wondered for an unpleasant moment if the elder Holmes had finally gotten sick of John and his enabling role in Sherlock's life and sent someone to drown him in the pond. His body wouldn't be found for _ages_.

But then he stumbled across one of the wildlife hides scattered through the park, and inside sat Mycroft Holmes at a little iron patio table all set up for tea, a space heater in the corner, umbrella hanging over the back of his chair.

John ducked in and took the empty seat.

Mycroft eyed him for a long moment, hands folded in his lap and his legs crossed primly. Then he sat up properly and picked up the teapot.

'Milk, no sugar, I believe, Doctor Watson?'

'Thanks,' John mumbled, and accepted the dainty cup. He didn't drink right away but wrapped his chilled fingers around the heat. 'So,' he said, a little revived by the warmth and the lack of imminent threat of drowning. 'What're we doing here? Not your usual style.' He took a sip of tea and sighed gratefully as the warmth spread all the way to his belly.

Mycroft gazed out the narrow window of the hide with a surprisingly melancholy expression. 'I do so enjoy watching the ducks,' he said wistfully. 'I find I rarely have time for such pleasures anymore, and must take the opportunity where I can.'

John stared. 'You like...ducks,' he repeated blankly.

Mycroft fixed him with a haughtily raised eyebrow. 'Doctor Watson, you seem to be under the misapprehension that I am something of a call service. I indulge you out of nothing more than that- indulgence. You are, for the time being, more of a benefit to my brother than a hindrance to me and your utter lack of his ability to avoid my surveillance helps me to keep him under watch. However...' He trailed off delicately and trailed a finger along the black handle of his umbrella, then snapped his gaze up to meet John's with a cold intensity. 'If you begin to overstep your bounds and attempt to abuse our relationship, Doctor Watson, you will tip the scales.'

John knew full well that a threat from this simple-looking man was more dangerous than any gun he'd had held to his head in Afghanistan. He let a pause settle over them, just to show he'd taken the words seriously, and sipped his tea. 'I need to talk to you about Hadrian,' he murmured finally.

'Ah, yes. Sherlock's _experiment_.' Mycroft was all business again, serving himself a little shortbread biscuit and bringing it to his mouth with a crisp white serviette. 'I am well aware that there is something unusual about the boy, he wouldn't have kept Sherlock's attention otherwise; would you be wishing to get rid of him or legitimise him?'

'Legitimise,' John said quickly. 'Definitely legitimise. We don't want his family to be able to take him back, or anything.'

'Mm,' Mycroft hummed, and peered at John over his teacup in that penetrating way that always made him feel a little annoyed with the younger brother and unnerved with the elder. 'Not too difficult, in theory; identification papers drawn up later in life for an orphan or refugee are rarely worth a second glance...and, you would be wanting adoption papers...?'

'Yes,' John choked out, before he could allow himself to think for too long.

'I see.' Mycroft continued to visually pick him apart. 'Doctor Watson...I give my brother a long leash, far longer than I should. I allow him his eccentricities and shield him from the repercussions any other citizen would incur. However, only in the most _desperate_ situations to I allow these eccentricities to pass by without even the slightest explanation.' He leaned forward slightly, staring John down. 'This does not appear to me to be a desperate situation.'

John swallowed. 'Well- see, there was this email someone sent to the website about her post getting stolen. Sherlock was in a strop because Lestrade hadn't rung him in weeks, and nothing else interesting had come along, so I convinced him to answer.' He fiddled with his teacup, remembering how snappish and sharp Sherlock had been at the time_. _'It was an older woman, and she was missing her post at least once every week, even though the postman swore he delivered it and she trusted him because it'd been the same man for years and she knew him pretty well, you know, little chats on the doorstep in the morning and that. And she'd mentioned it to her son, who was upset- _unreasonably _upset, she said, given all she usually got in the post was flyers and a few magazines, she did most of her billing online. And he suggested she email Sherlock. So, we went down to Surrey.'

Suddenly, John's phone buzzed in his pocket. He gave Mycroft an apologetic smile and pulled it out.

_Taking Hadrian to lunch._

_ Angelo's. Acceptable? –SH_

John smiled. He'd grown to like the cheery ex-con- probably because of his role in John's ditching of the cane, then because he always turned away John's money when he tried to pay for a meal whether Sherlock was there or not. He'd taken to stopping in sometimes when he had the cab fare and a long lunch break at the surgery. He'd never brought a date there, though. It felt wrong somehow, and all he could see when the thought came to mind was Angelo's genuinely pleased face as he celebrated John and Sherlock's 'partnership.'

Sherlock had far more people caring about him than he realised. Such an idiot, for such a genius.

Ignoring Mycroft's entirely unsubtle finger drumming on the table, he quickly typed back,

_Fine. Don't order him any_

_ shellfish, I haven't checked _

_ for allergies. JW _

'Sorry,' John muttered, and put the phone back in his pocket. 'I told Sherlock to text me if they went out.' Mycroft relaxed back into his chair and raised his eyebrows slightly as if to say, _go on_. John took a deep breath, and gazed out the gap between the hide wall and ceiling at the ducks paddling morosely across the dingy grey water. 'It was this place called Little Whinging...'

* * *

twitter slash HadrianHolmes. Also, really guys? I get my first flame and it's because I was sick and didn't feel like writing for a few days? C'mon, you can do better than that!


	11. Chapter 11

_Then_

Sherlock grumbled incessantly under his breath as they wandered along street after street of identical white houses, each with a neat little front garden and most with a moderately expensive black or grey car in the drive. A few residents were taking advantage of the uncommonly dry afternoon to walk their small spaniels or push prams along the pavement.

God, John hated Surrey. He'd trade the insanity of Afghanistan for this maddeningly perfect neighbourhood any day. Clearly, his flatmate felt the same.

'Dull...dull, dull, dull,' the taller man muttered irritably. 'Number twelve's just had a baby. Number eight's been fired but he's not told his wife yet, still pretending to go to work. Number ten's having an affair with thirteen. A large stray dog has been prowling the neighbourhood at night, but no-one's noticed yet.'

'What about nine and eleven?' John asked, kicking a stray pebble with his toe.

Sherlock tilted his head to give him a sardonic look. 'The two currently watching us? Yes, John, let's peer over and draw even more attention so they might come out and want to _talk_ and make us stay here even longer than we need to. That's a _brilliant _idea.'

John scowled as they continued on their way to the address Mrs Christianson had sent in her email. He didn't understand why they hadn't just taken the cab all the way to her front door, really, but Sherlock had insisted on 'seeing the area.' As far as John could tell, seeing one or two houses would've been enough to guess the rest.

Their street met up with another winding one, and the two combined to curve off to the left. Across from them was a small neighbourhood park, perhaps four or five plots in size, the usual thing found in suburbs built over the last few decades: paved border with plain metal benches bolted every ten feet, a couple of metal rubbish bins, a resilient wooden play structure complete with bright yellow plastic slide and a row of black plastic swings. A few women were there with a number of children. John's 'doctor eye' picked out one immediately- a frankly disgustingly enormous blond boy, the size and shape of a half-grown pig, sitting in the sandbox and throwing toys at any of the other children who tried to get in.

'Vile,' Sherlock muttered.

'Sad,' John replied, stuffing his hands in his pockets and rocking on his heels as they paused. 'His parents aren't doing him any favours, that's for sure. It's better to be skinny as a rake like you than..._ballooned_ like that.'

'Hm? No, I meant his cousin.'

'What?'

'His cousin. The boy hiding behind the trees. Black hair, small, insufficient clothing once belonging to your fat boy in the sandbox.'

John squinted at the small stand of thin trees behind the playground, a nervous voice in the back of his mind praying fervently that the mums wouldn't look over to see two strange men staring intently at their children. Sherlock was right, of course- a small boy, perhaps four or five years old, hung back and watched the others play. He wore a t-shirt and trousers that, even from across the street, John could see were much too big for him, and no coat, even though the air was cold enough for John to have stolen Sherlock's scarf ('You've got the collar of your coat!' 'That's not the point, it's mine!' 'Just ask Mycroft for another one!' 'But I want _mine_! It's got my neck pattern worn in it!' 'Ask Mycroft for another one and I'll take the new one, you berk!' '...Oh.').

'Well,' Sherlock said abruptly. 'Ida Christianson. It's obviously about the son's drug dealing, but I want to see which magazines she takes.'

Then he was striding away on stupidly long legs and John had to jog a few steps to catch up, the ragged little boy already put from his mind.

.:*:.

_Now_

Sherlock smacked his hands together in a resounding clap when the lock flipped over with a soft _click_ and the front door swung slowly open. 'Brilliant!' he shouted.

Hadrian looked up at him with sceptical eyes. Sherlock beamed.

'Hadrian, don't you see? This is _magic_ and it's _real_! Oh, what are the possibilities, what are the _limits_!' His mind spinning off in a thousand directions, Sherlock seized the boy under the arms and swung him up onto his bony hip, hardly pausing to snatch Harry's jacket and scarf and his own coat before he thundered down the stairs. 'From this day forward, Hadrian, every Saturday is spaghetti day. Angelo's will be thrilled. Now, if you can open the door to the street, I'll let you have a tiramisu and not tell John.'

.:*:.

'I will ignore, for the moment, your inclination to view me as an unlimited supply post,' Mycroft said, with an air of resignation. 'My dear brother's habits will pervade. However, I am curious as to why you seem to find yourself perpetually out of funds. Your salary at the surgery is, after all, a generous one.'

John stared at him. 'I have to buy milk about eight times a week,' he pointed out. 'I've still no idea where it all goes. And Sherlock never bothers to replace all the things in the flat that he breaks or blows up, and Mrs Hudson puts the explosions on our rent, and now there's all of Hadrian's things and food, and do you know how often I actually get to _work_ at the surgery? My fulltime job is chasing down serial killers and making your brother tea while he sulks. The surgery is like a hobby I play at in my spare time.'

Mycroft tilted his head briefly with a twitch of his eyebrows in such an obvious _well...fair enough_ gesture John almost grinned.

'Yes. Anyway...may I?' He gestured at the teapot.

'Of course.' Mycroft refilled his cup with tea and his plate with biscuits and offered the matching white china creamer.

'Thanks. I like these almond ones, by the way.' John stuffed a crumbly little biscuit in his mouth. 'Anyway. So we went to Mrs Christianson's house, and Sherlock figured out in about five minutes that her son had started dealing drugs- low level stuff, but he was making a bit of money at it, and sending it all to his mum. But someone had figured it out-'

'One of his clients trying to get their money back, yes. Obviously,' Mycroft interrupted with a touch of impatience. 'And how does any of this relate to my new nephew?'

John choked briefly on his gulp of tea. _Nephew._ Well, he was, really, if Sherlock was to adopt him. Oh, god, what did that make John?

Mycroft was watching impassively with slightly raised eyebrows, and John knew the elder Holmes knew exactly where his thoughts were going, and was probably highly amused by it.

'Right, well, we stayed for a while because she insisted on giving us tea, and then the brother rang and Sherlock answered and it was a bit- well- anyway, it was getting late by then but we left pretty quickly and decided to call a cab once we got back to a main road, so we wouldn't have to hang around. And we passed the park again.'


	12. Chapter 12

.:*:.

_Then_

'Seriously, Sherlock,' John said exasperatedly, shaking his head. 'You can't _say_ things like that.'

'What, the truth?' Sherlock's face was hidden by the turned-up collar of his coat, but he definitely sounded amused.

'You know what I mean. You didn't have to be so blunt. She was an old woman, you could've given her a heart attack.'

'John, she's having wild and rampant sex every Thursday with a gentleman from her Bingo club. I sincerely doubt anything I told her tonight could have had a chance of straining her heart any more than what they get up to.'

'Oh, just- _no_- Christ, Sherlock, I do _not_ want to know that sort of thing!'

Sherlock grinned down at the poor gagging doctor. 'Come on, John, the evidence was everywhere. She's hardly the boating type, so what did you think the crossed paddles over the mantle were for? And the hall closet _alone_ had-'

'No!' John slapped a hand over the taller man's mouth. 'Seriously, Sherlock. Unless it has vital bearing on a case, never, ever, ever tell me about the sex lives of pensioners. I do _not _want to know.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but obediently shut his mouth, so John took his hand away. They resumed walking. 'You probably also don't want to know what they did on that sofa you were sitting on, then.'

'_God_ no.'

'Dull, John. Dull and illogical for a doctor. What if the gentleman happened to get groin strain and come into your surgery?'

'Just shut- hang on, what's that?'

John grabbed Sherlock's sleeve to jerk him to a stop, peering through the gathering dusk at the park on their left. They were on the playground's side of the street this time, and the families were gone, but something was definitely moving in the trees. John remembered Sherlock's earlier words about a large dog, and swallowed.

'Not the dog,' his flatmate murmured. 'It's _him._'

'Who?' John asked in a whisper.

'The boy. The cousin.' Sherlock shook his sleeve free from John's grip and moved slowly forward to the trees. John followed quickly.

'What boy?' he hissed.

'_That_ boy,' Sherlock said in a loud, clear voice. 'Are you going to come out?'

There was a long pause, then a small, dark-haired boy crept from the shadows of the trees into the glow of the setting sun and street lights. John's breath caught in his throat. The child was thin, painfully thin; that much was obvious even under his enormous clothes. The narrow shoulders hunched in and his stick-like arms were crossed tightly over his chest. He shivered in the cold evening air, and John remembered how odd he'd thought it earlier that the boy had been without a coat even on a cold, late-November afternoon. Without thinking, he shrugged his own jacket down his arms and moved forward to drape it around the child's shoulders.

The boy ducked back, flinching, and John froze.

'Right,' Sherlock murmured, and for once, John didn't need the detective's help to deduce the situation. He'd learned plenty in medical school and seen plenty in his office to figure this one out.

'Right,' he repeated, and crouched down to meet the boy's level with a small smile. 'I'm John,' he said warmly, and gestured over his shoulder. 'That's my friend, Sherlock. We've just been visiting Mrs Christianson down the street. What are you doing out here?'

The boy eyed him intently, then shrugged.

'It's a bit late for playing,' John continued. 'Aren't you getting cold? Here, you can wear my jacket for a while, if you want. I don't need it right now, see? I've got a jumper and a scarf on.' He held the jacket out and waited.

The boy twitched forward slightly, but didn't move to take the coat. 'Mustn't be a burden,' he said in a surprisingly clear voice.

'Oh, for god's sake,' Sherlock muttered. Then, before John could stop him, he crossed the grass to the boy in two long, swift steps, grabbing John's jacket on the way, and stuffed the boy into it before either he or John could yelp in protest. He certainly yelped afterwards, though, squirming to get away from Sherlock's hands as the tall man knelt and zipped up the coat with the boy's arms still folded inside.

'Sherlock!' John cried. 'That's not how you-'

'Why do they hate you?' Sherlock asked, completely ignoring his flatmate. 'Did they tell you to stay out here, or are they so horrible that you'd rather stay out than go back?'

John wanted to throw up his hands and angrily inform Sherlock that you don't just interrogate obviously abused children, that's not how it works- but the boy scowled. 'Dropped the pan,' he grumbled, quickly settling under the heavy hands Sherlock still rested on his shoulders. 'Aunt P'tunia said I can't come back 'til after dinner's done, to clean up.'

'Mm,' Sherlock said absently, and John could tell he was scanning and cataloguing and deducing every aspect of the boy's life from his loose, tattered shoes and the way he held himself tightly within John's coat (so massive, on the tiny child). Then he stood and caught John's eyes. 'I think I'd like to pay Aunt Petunia a visit,' he said mildly.

John surveyed the child, too. Messy dark hair, big light eyes, pale skin, scrawny frame. Like a little tiny Sherlock, right down to the stiff carriage and long fingers. 'I think so, too,' he murmured. 'What's your name, little one?'

The boy shrugged. 'Boy. Aunt P'tunia calls me Freak but Mrs Figg says that's not nice.'

John stared at Sherlock and watched the muscles of the narrow jaw clench. Then the detective seized the boy (ignoring the startled yelp), holding him tightly on his hip, spun on his toes, and strode away. 'Directions, please. Come along John.'

John followed, feeling his world shudder a little under his feet. 'Sherlock...shouldn't we just call Lestrade? Or the police?'

Sherlock's snort was audible even three long steps ahead. 'This is not an ordinary case of child abuse, John. I don't want them messing things up just yet. Here we are, number four.'

Another identical little house with another businessman's car in the drive, just like all the houses John could see from where he stood. This was _so_ wrong- child abuse wasn't like murder, they couldn't just go barrelling in, they'd get in _so _much trouble Greg wouldn't be able to get them out of and they'd probably just muck up any investigation by doing this because the aunt and uncle would have a warning and the boy would never get away, he should just leave, just call the police before Sherlock had a chance to-'

'What do you want?_' _A thin, long-faced woman with watery-blonde hair had opened the door. Her eyes ran over Sherlock, with his arresting features and expensive clothes, to the obscured child in his arms. She ignored John, stood at Sherlock's side in his jeans and plain camel jumper. Sherlock's smile was sharp.

'Sherlock Holmes, and this is Doctor Watson. I believe we've found something you've lost.'

The boy in Sherlock's arms had twisted and pressed his head into the greatcoat's collar when they stepped up to number four's door. At this, he turned slightly and peered out.

'_You_.' The woman glared furiously. 'What do you think you're doing, bothering respectable strangers? Get inside, now! Vernon!'

The boy began to shiver visibly. A very large, ruddy-faced man lumbered up from somewhere in the house. 'Yes, dear?'

'The _boy_ made these two men bring him home,' Petunia- it must be Petunia, John thought- snapped. 'Get down! _In_, I said!'

The child squirmed a little, as though trying to wriggle out of Sherlock's arms, but the man held tight. John set his face in an intimidating scowl and straightened his back, automatically shifting into a parade rest. He wasn't exactly sure where his friend was going with all this, but he'd be damned if he didn't help.

'Actually,' Sherlock said, his light voice in contrast to his flinty eyes. 'I've become rather attached since we met- oh, ten minutes ago, and I wondered if I might keep him. How do you feel about adoption?'

Petunia and Vernon stared, clearly shocked. 'Adop- adoption?' Petunia finally stuttered. 'You want to adopt him?'

'Careful, Petunia,' her husband growled. 'He might be one of _them_.'

The woman clenched her fists in the skirt of her prim, flowered dress and darted beady eyes between Vernon and Sherlock. 'But if he wants the boy-'

'He might be one of _that_ sort, come to take him away, and then we'll be in trouble. You remember what the note said! Or he could be sent to spy on us!' Vernon snarled, his face going ruddier by the moment. John sincerely feared for his blood pressure.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 'I assure you, I'm no _sort_ you've ever met before,' he said coolly, with a little toss of his head to bring up his chin and loosen his dark curls to fall dramatically over his brow and highlight his eldritch eyes, and John had to bite back a smirk. Vain git. 'He's obviously your nephew, or a similar relation, and you obviously don't want him. I'd like to take him.'

'What has he been telling you?' the fat man blustered furiously.

'Is there anything to tell me?' Sherlock asked mildly. 'Besides the obvious facts that you clearly don't feed him, you don't let him use any of the bedrooms upstairs, you utilise him as a slave, and you allow your pig of a son to physically assault him on a regular basis? Or perhaps the fact that some paramilitary group is after him, certainly with intent to harm and most likely to kill, but you let him wander in the dark alone? Or _maybe_ you were referring to the fact that you've been receiving money for his care, but spending it all on yourselves and insisting to the boy he's just a _burden_. Of course, you might not mean any of those things at all; he could hardly have told us much, could he? It's so difficult to start a conversation when you don't even know your own name.'

Vernon's face went alarmingly red. 'Petunia, dear,' he said through gritted teeth, 'go see to Dudders, won't you? He'll be ready for his dessert, by now.'

The woman's face had grown steadily more pinched throughout Sherlock's coolly-delivered accusations as though she'd been sucking on a lemon. She shot one last suspicious look between Sherlock and John, then hurried away into the house with a sharp _click click click _of her heels.

'Now,' Vernon said, rubbing his thick hands together like a criminal in a film. A vein pulsed visibly in his temple, making John wince. 'You're some of..._them_, aren't you? Probably a relative, by the look of you- for all the old man said he had none left. Not that I ever thought we could trust a word _your_ lot said!' His cackle sounded more than a little mad, John thought with some alarm. 'Well, you can tell whoever you work for that we don't want to be watched. If you want to keep an eye on the freak, you can take him back and take care of him yourselves.'

'Look, we've got no idea what you're talking about,' John interrupted irritably. 'What the hell is your problem, calling an innocent little boy a freak?'

'Innocent!' Vernon crowed. 'Innocent, all those freaky things he does! Dangerous to our Dudders! I don't want my son brought up around any...any...' His voice dropped very low. 'Any _magic_.'

John stared, completely nonplussed. Vernon glared back.

'I won't have it anymore,' he snarled. 'If you're going to be watching over our shoulders, you can ruddy well have him. We don't want him anymore. No more making things appear and disappear under our noses, or mucking about with Dudders' toys, or doing things to the bloody flowers! No- more-' his voice dropped again- '_magic_!'

Then he slammed the door on their noses, leaving John and, for once, Sherlock, completely dumbfounded on the doorstep.

'Well,' Sherlock said finally, and glanced down at the wide-eyed, white-faced child in his arms. 'Do you like violin music?'

.:*:.

_Now_

'And that was it, really,' John said with a sigh, leaning back in his seat. 'We took a cab back to Baker Street and Sherlock spent the whole ride with Hadrian in his lap, the two of them muttering back and forth. I kept trying to ask what they were talking about but he just kept saying he was 'gathering information' and wouldn't tell me anything else. Then we got back to the flat and I offered to take him down to the police station so they could call social services, and he said Hadrian was '_his_ experiment' and he wouldn't be giving him up. And here we are. I still don't know what he means by 'experiment,' either.'

'Mm.' It was the first sound Mycroft had made in a while; even the cooling tea had been abandoned during John's retelling. The Holmes brother was still blank-faced.

'And...the magic,' John said with difficulty. 'Sherlock thinks it's real.' He scrubbed a hand over his face and through his military-crop hair. 'I know it sounds mad, I really do. I mean, I'm a _doctor _and I know how most of the things people used to think were magic or vampires or whatever can be explained away by science and diseases- but there was this thing with my door being locked and then unlocked, and...I don't know. I'm...worried, though.' He caught Mycroft's distant gaze and the pale eyes focussed on his at once. 'His uncle was _actually_ afraid and angry at whatever it is Hadrian can do, and he made it sound like there are other people like him somewhere out there, watching him. Or waiting for him, or something. I don't know, but I'm worried. And I have no idea what Sherlock's thinking with all this.'

'Yes,' Mycroft murmured. 'He does have a distressing tendency to rush into things...' He trailed off, gazing out the hide window again, even though the ducks had drifted to a distant patch of reeds. 'Well.' He turned back to John. 'I can tell you nothing at the present moment, Doctor Watson, except that your fears are not entirely unfounded. Hadrian is in no danger for the present moment, and Sherlock is not likely to do anything rash today or tomorrow. If you are agreeable, I will come to the flat in two days to discuss the situation.'

John sighed. 'Thank you,' he said quietly. 'Look, I know we're a lot of trouble for you, and you've got, like, the most busy and insane job in the country-'

'You flatter me, Doctor. I am merely a civil servant, as I have said.'

'_The_ civil servant, clearly,' John said with a roll of his eyes. 'If we've stolen ash trays from the palace you've probably got them from...secretly operational torture chambers in the Tower, or something.'

'Smoking is not permitted within any part of the Tower of London, Doctor Watson,' Mycroft interrupted loftily.

John stared at him. 'God, you just can't help yourself, can you?'

Mycroft looked rather pleased.

'Anyway. I know I don't really help make things any easier, or help keep Sherlock out of trouble, and I probably just add to your workload more than anyone else could get away with without being taken out by MI-5, but- I appreciate it. _We_ appreciate it. Really. We'd have been in...unbeatable trouble, I think, more times than we know without your help. Even just with little things like paying rent and Sherlock having clean clothes and me not getting written up as certifiably insane by my therapist. So...thanks.'

There was an awkward silence in which John had to look down at his plate and fiddle with biscuit crumbs, feeling like he was back at school and trying to explain to his English professor that he was really, really, embarrassingly grateful to the man for once again cleaning up his scrapes and not offering any empty platitudes after he'd been beaten up _again_ in the schoolyard by his much taller, much tougher classmates.

'John.'

Mycroft's voice was as kindly reassuring as Professor Llewellyn's, and John chanced looking up to meet warm blue eyes.

'My brother has always been a...trying person, but he has been a far better one since you came into his life, as I know you have already been told by many people on many occasions. We are a small family, Sherlock and I, as your sister and yourself are a small family; and you have been brought into ours regardless of your intent. I have had no reason to believe that you will betray our trust.'

Simple enough words, really, but given who they'd come from, it felt like just about the highest praise John'd ever had. Even with Mycroft's parting reminder that he was _not _a taxi service or an on-call PA- oh, but do take the rest of the packet of biscuits, Sherlock might actually deign to eat a few and Mycroft really shouldn't keep such things around- John felt a little warmer all the way back to the flat.


End file.
